<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Let The Lambs Scream by Thestarvedghost</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25435780">Let The Lambs Scream</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thestarvedghost/pseuds/Thestarvedghost'>Thestarvedghost</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Sounds of Lambs [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal Season 5, I took Silence of the Lambs and played with its canon, M/M, Major Character Death Not Will or Hannibal, Murder Husbands, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Silence of the Lambs References, Will Graham is a Cannibal, as do the show runners of Hannibal do, vaguely supernatural elements</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:01:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,899</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25435780</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thestarvedghost/pseuds/Thestarvedghost</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In cells next to each other, were Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter. </p><p>"Graham...Lecter," Chilton's voice broke through the quiet of the room. "You have a visitor."</p><p>Both men looked at Starling with differing levels of interest.</p><p>"Hello, I'm Agent Clarice Starling."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hannibal Lecter &amp; Clarice Starling, Will Graham &amp; Clarice Starling, Will Graham &amp; Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Sounds of Lambs [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2239380</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>876</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Canapé</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The once immaculate building of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane is no longer. Throughout the years, its funding has been cut more and more, each incident causing the hospital to lose it; Abel Gideon’s murder of a nurse, Gideon’s escape, the whole thing with Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter’s escape, and, now, both Graham and Lecter- the two of them had only been in the hospital for nine months, but the two of them also had, on record, bitten, snapped, and killed seven nurses and orderlies in total. </p><p>Agent Clarice Starling knows the history of the Hospital; it wasn't necessary, but she felt as if the more she knew about where these dangerous minds were kept, the safer she would be. The less they would be able to get to her.</p><p>"Do not touch the glass. Do not approach the glass. You pass them nothing but soft paper - no pencils or pens. No staples or paperclips in their paper. Use the sliding food carrier, no exceptions. If one of them attempts to pass you anything, do not accept it. Do you understand me?" </p><p>"Yes, sir."</p><p>“Lecter will try to cause you to feel unbalanced, uneasy. Graham though, Graham <em> will  </em>know how to play you. He will know what to <em> be </em> based on you, on your foot steps to how much you blink. There's no stopping that, but try to not let it get to you. If you allow him in, Graham can be, arguably, more dangerous than Lecter.”</p><p>Starling notices how Frederick Chilton’s hand twitched on the cane he was holding, his knuckles white. </p><p>Starling also knows all about Dr. Chilton. The man had his organs taken out of his own body while alive and awake, framed for multiple murders, was shot in the face, his lips bitten off, and then set on fire. </p><p>And yet, here he was. </p><p><em> He should probably not be, </em> Starling thinks uncharitably. </p><p>Dr. Chilton's face was covered in scars from skin grafts. Patches of different shades of skin, some his, some donors, were stitched into his body like a macabre quilt that no makeup could cover, unless one wanted to look extremely caked on. Chilton was apparently fine with that option. His lips, one his own, the other not, were cosmetically almost perfect, but he still had a slight lisp, the kind that most don't notice until someone pointed it out.</p><p>Starling follows Chilton through the hallway of the BSHCI, the sounds of her flats and his cane tapping against the limonium floor. </p><p>“I use the cell Dr. Bloom used when she was running the hospital,”  Chilton tells Starling, as if sharing a bit of gossip. “We added a wall in the middle though, so they can’t have any contact.” They were both walking slowly; Starling following at a snail's pace because of Chilton's aggressive limp. Starling wonders briefly if he should be in a wheelchair, but was too proud to use it. Or, maybe, a wheelchair would make him think of his last attack. “They were, in the beginning, on different sides of the building, in the basement, but after numerous attacks on the staff, they claimed they would only stop if they were near each other.” Chilton makes a face, as if he was smelling something terrible. “‘I just want to see my husband<em>.’ </em>they would say, over the body of their latest...victim.”</p><p>Crawford told Starling about that. On their seven year run from the law, they somehow got legally married. Starling supposed that it was lucky for them that Molly Foster, formerly known as Molly Graham, divorced Graham after it was proven that he was alive and had run away with Lecter. It gave them a chance to legally bind themselves to each other.</p><p><em>Love finds a way,</em> Starling surmises. </p><p>“They’ve kept their promise, though,” Chilton sighs wearily, bringing her attention back to him. “Not one employee here has been hurt by them in the three months that they’ve been held next to each other.”</p><p>Chilton and Starling walk up two flights of stairs, and through three sets of doors, each one with its own security guard, metal detector, and electronic lock, before walking though the final doorway. </p><p>In cells next to each other, are Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter. Both wear the standard light grey jumpsuits that prisoners got, and both have their legs crossed on their respective beds, eyes closed, heads slightly bent so it touched the transparent wall that they both shared. </p><p>The cells are quite big for a single person, and Starling is momentarily surprised that, apparently, this whole area was once all Doctor Lecter’s. Both cells have a bed against the inner wall, a desk and chair facing the inner wall, and a toilet in the far off corner, nothing else in terms of furniture. Graham and Lecter have mostly books stacked on their desks, though Graham had a few papers scattered on it, while Doctor Lecter’s had graphite sticks and paper neatly piled on his desk. Lecter’s walls also have many drawings taped to it. Some were architecture, or views of cities, remakes of famous paintings, though Starling notices most were various angles of Will Graham, the majority with his hair shorter than it was currently- probably as short as it was when they were on the lam.</p><p>Graham currently has his hair fairly long, curling around his ears and the back of his neck, and giving him a shaggy appearance. He has a small, faint, and crude scar running down one of his cheeks, and another scar, longer and neater, on his forehead. His face is calm, with only the barest expression on it, and he did not look up at the sound of doors opening; neither did Doctor Lecter.</p><p>Doctor Lecter's light brown hair that once only had flecks of gray in it, was now overtaken by the color, the only thing that aged him from his wanted photos, as he still looked fit for his age. His face was as equally calm as his husband’s.</p><p>It wasn’t until she was standing in front of both of them that she realizes that their heads were angled in such a way that, without the wall there, Graham’s head would have rested on Doctor Lecter’s shoulder.</p><p>"Graham...Lecter," Chilton's voice broke through the quiet of the room. "You have a visitor."</p><p>Both men finally look at Starling with differing levels of interest.</p><p>"Hello, I'm Agent Clarice Starling." Starling kept her head up, refusing to look intimidated. </p><p>Graham’s eyes stay locked on Starling, still sitting, while Doctor Lecter stood up, and only kept his eyes on her for a second before looking at Graham.</p><p>"How are you, Frederick?"  Graham, eyes still locked on Starling, speaks softly. Starling feels like a butterfly pinned by its wing. As she watches Chilton’s face crumple, as if he means to wince, or grimace, but his patchwork of skin didn't know how to do it, she thinks that maybe he wasn’t strong enough to be the head of the BSHCI anymore.</p><p>"I'm fine, Mr. Graham." Chilton replies bitingly. Starling is amazed at how he could look both terrified and furious at the same time. Graham finally looks away from Starling, turning to smile sweetly at Chilton, who makes a point of avoiding eye contact.</p><p>"Break a leg." Chilton tells- warns- Starling quietly before moving hastily out of the room.</p><p>"I think you upset the good doctor, Will." Doctor Lecter says humorously.  Starling turns to face him.</p><p>“Hm,” Graham hums in agreement, facing Starling enough that she could see a smirk threatening to appear on his face. “When don’t I?”</p><p>Doctor Lecter lets out a light chuckle, turning to look at Starling. “When indeed?”</p><p>"He tries to spend as little time with us as possible now," Graham explains to Starling. “We almost never see him outside of ‘therapy.’” Starling can see the disdain in the word as if it was physically dripping out his mouth like blood. Graham gets off of his cot, stretching his arms over his head. “Hannibal thinks we bring back bad memories.” Letting his arms drop, Graham shrugged. “So, Agent Clarice Starling, what can we do for you?”</p><p>“Excuse me,” Doctor Lecter interjects, before Starling could respond. ”Have we met before, Agent Starling?” </p><p>Starling stiffens. “I was...at the scene of your arrest.” she says slowly, wondering if this was too much information to hand out. While Chilton just gave her warnings about the two men, Jack Crawford’s rings louder in her ear.</p><p><em> Don’t let them know </em> anything <em> about you. Tell them nothing personal. Don’t let them in your head. </em></p><p>“You helped catch us?” Graham asks curiously. </p><p>“No,” Starling tells him honestly. “I wasn’t on your case until we already had your whereabouts.”</p><p>“A last minute addition?” Doctor Lecter remarks, amused.</p><p>“You could say that,” Starling allows. </p><p>“What would <em> you </em> say?” Graham asks. </p><p>“I would say it was more of a ‘any warm body needed’ kind of situation.” she says before clearing her throat. “But that’s not why I’m here.”</p><p>“No, let me guess.” Graham leans his side on the wall that he shared with his husband, suddenly looking tired. “You’re one of Jack’s. He sent you to get me back on the horse, even though that horse is dead by my own hands.”</p><p>“Many other horses, as well,” Doctor Lecter adds, a small, fond smile appearing on his face. </p><p>Graham chuckles. “Yeah, that too.”</p><p><em> 24 horses, </em> Starling thinks, <em> that we know about. </em></p><p>Starling licks her lips nervously. “The FBI has sent me to see if you would be willing to help set up a profile-”</p><p>“<em> Honestly</em>, Jack.” Graham sighs, rubbing his eyes.  “I didn’t like doing this when I worked for him, what makes him think I’m going to want to do it <em> now </em>?”</p><p>“Perhaps he thinks you’re bored,” Doctor Lecter offers. </p><p>“-a profile of yourself.” Starling continues.</p><p>Graham pauses. “Of myself?”</p><p>“It was either this, or a questionnaire,” Starling tells him, shrugging lightly. “But it was thought that you would find it,” Starling pauses, trying to find the right word. “Dull,” she settles on.</p><p>“Dull,” Graham repeats. Starling nods. He cocks his head a bit, looking at Starling intensely. </p><p>“You have a very unique mind,” Starling says, knowing it was perhaps a silly thing to say, but she didn’t think it would hurt.</p><p>Graham gives a brief self deprecating smile. “Most would say, ‘insane mind’.” </p><p>“You said it, not me.” Starling speaks before she can help herself, something she says often to Ardellia. A startled, rusty laugh escapes out of Graham. She grimaces. </p><p><em> He sounds so normal, </em> Starling thinks to herself, <em> as he laughs </em></p><p>“That’s not why you're here though.” Graham says, mirthful.</p><p>“Excuse me?” </p><p>“You’re excused.” Graham says with a slight smirk. “Let us see your credentials.” </p><p>“I showed them to the security guard and Dr. Chilton.” Starling protests. </p><p>“But not to us,” Graham points out. “How do we know your not working for the tabloids, trying to get the newest scoop on the ‘Murder Husbands’?” Graham says the infamous nickname with derision, while Doctor Lecter looks decidedly pleased. “So, let us see your credentials.” </p><p>Starling stifles a sigh, and reaches into her bag to get her FBI identification. She holds it up to the glass. </p><p>“Apologies, Agent Starling, but our eyes aren't what they used to be. If you could bring it closer?” Doctor Lecter looks pleasantly at her, hands behind his back. The image of a gentleman.</p><p>Starling hesitates. Of course, Graham notices. “It’s not like we could hurt you, even if we wanted to.”</p><p>“And do you want to?” Starling doesn’t know if she wants an honest answer.</p><p>Graham manages to convey a shrug with his face. “No,”</p><p> Starling takes a step forward. </p><p>“I don’t have my glasses, Starling, so you’ll need to take another step.” Graham smiles, and it did nothing to unnerve her. It also, however, did nothing to nerve her.</p><p>She takes another step forward anyway. She is barely more than a foot away from the glass. Both men lean in a bit, reading her badge. </p><p>“This is new,” Graham mutters, leaning back.</p><p>“How long have you been with the FBI, Agent Starling?” Doctor Lecter asks, mirroring his husband’s posture. </p><p>“I don’t see how that's pertaining to why I’m here.”</p><p>Graham tsks. “Polite conversation, Agent. My husband’s big on it.”  Starling shifts on her feet, and takes a step back.</p><p>“A year, next month.”</p><p>“Well, congrats,” Graham replies. “Jack’s getting better on who he keeps on his leash.”</p><p>Starling bristles. “Excuse me?”</p><p>“Went from Miriam Lass, the student, to Will Graham, the professor who did field work, to, finally, Clarice Starling, the actual FBI agent.” Graham lets out a chuckle. ”He did learn his lesson, I guess.” Graham shakes his head. “You’re not here for me to give you my psychological profile.” </p><p>“And why do you say that?” Starling asks, irritated, as she puts her badge away.</p><p>“You can’t tell?” Graham gives her a look that was either paternal, or condescending. Starling can't tell. “If it was simply a profile on me, you and I would be in one of the visitor rooms. Hannibal is supposed to be here for whatever it is you’re here for.” Graham walks over to his desk, lifting himself up to sit on it, and closes his eyes. “You also aren’t experienced enough to try to trick or to deal with Hannibal and I, unless Jack is slipping up, which I doubt. So he didn’t tell you that you were here on a secret double mission. He hoped that he could shove some young agent towards us, get our defenses down, get some free consulting work in, in the guise of trying to finally understand me, all because that young agent looks like-” Graham stops suddenly, as if struck. His eyes snap open, furious, and Starling quickly stumbles back, feeling embarrassed once she remembers the glass between them all.</p><p>“I do believe it would be in your best interest to fly away, Agent Starling,” Doctor Lecter isn't looking at her as he speaks, instead looking at his husband, an inscrutable expression on his face. “I’m afraid my husband and I aren't up for company at the moment.”</p><p>“No,” For a moment, Starling thinks she said it, but then she sees Graham striding back towards the glass wall, and realizes it was he who spoke. “Tell <em> Jack </em> ,” Graham spits the name out with vitriol, baring his teeth. ”that if he tries to use <em> her </em> as a playing card again, I’ll make his life <em> hell </em> , even from inside this cage. If he wants something from me, from us, then don’t <em> bullshit </em> us.” Graham huffs, turning his back towards her. “I’m tired of that.”</p><p>Starling knows she would get nothing for him like this, so she does as Lecter says: she leaves.</p><p>It isn't until she is leaving the building that she remembers Graham’s medical chart she read along with his file. He didn’t need glasses.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> The ones he had owned when he lived in the States were non-prescription.</span></p><p> </p><p>Starling is enraged, and embarrassed. Even more so when she goes down to Crawford’s office. “You couldn't have <em> told </em> me? You had to let me go in there, blind?” Starling wants to throw her arms up, but refrains. <em> Professionalism </em> , she reminds herself. <em> Calm down. </em></p><p>“I thought that if you went in there with an agenda besides the one you were saying, Will would have noticed instantly.” Jack Crawford both looks and sounds tired. The past few years had not been kind to him.</p><p>“Well, he figured it out anyway,” Starling says angrily. “Sir,” she adds, for decorum.</p><p>Crawford sighs behind his desk, rubbing a hand over his face. Starling knows she shouldn't have yelled, not only because Crawford was her boss. Lecter and Graham were Crawford’s friends, one upon a time. It must be hard to deal with that. Still, she can't help but ask, “Who is ‘<em>her’</em>, sir? The one Graham says I looked like?”</p><p>Crawford rubs his eyes a final time before dropping his hand. “Abigail Hobbs.”</p><p>Starling knows the name, but not the face. Hobbs name was mentioned in both Doctor Lecter’s and Graham’s file-Mentioned when Graham killed her father, when he was on trial for her murder, and when Lecter slit her throat in his kitchen in Baltimore.</p><p>She can’t understand why Crawford thought that her apparently looking like this long dead girl would help the two men open up, and it must show on her face.</p><p>“They both were her legal guardians, when she was in Port Haven.” Crawford frowns. “Will told me once, before he ran off to Italy, that he and Hannibal wanted to raise her together. Be her fathers.”</p><p>Starling’s hand twitches. “She was their daughter.”</p><p>“No.” Crawford disagrees. “She wasn’t. But... I know Will wanted her to be.” He shakes his head. “You do look like her, Starling. I thought seeing Abigail’s ghost would make him remember who he was…”</p><p>“And you didn't think that was important for me to know? That you were sending me in front of America’s most notorious serial killers, unaware what the plan was, looking like their daughter, dead by their hands?”</p><p>“Lecter killed Abigail Hobbs, Will had nothing to do with that.” Jack defends Graham, even now. Strange. </p><p>“The way I see it, sir? Past, present, future, all their crimes are each other’s. You should have told me.”</p><p>“I know,” Crawford sighs. </p><p>“About <em> why </em> you sent me and why you sent <em> me.”  </em></p><p>“I know,” he repeats. “I’ll figure something out about getting Graham and Lecter’s thoughts on the case. You won’t have to go back in there.”</p><p>And that..stirs something unpleasant in Starling’s chest.  Starling takes a breath to control herself, looking away from Crawford to help quell her anger. One of his bulletin boards had various writings and newspaper articles pinned around a map, the other photos of 5 different bodies.</p><p>
  <em> Signature→skins? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Travelling </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “how do you like your blue-eyed boy” </em>
</p><p>“With all do respect sir, I never said I wanted off. Just that I wanted to be in on it.”</p><p>Crawford looks at her carefully. “Why?”<br/>
“Graham said that he didn’t want any bullshit, not that he wasn’t interested in helping. They both seemed not to mind my presence, and I believe I can establish a rapport with them.” Starling pauses. She thinks of the way Graham’s eyes stayed locked on her, and when he laughed. Of Doctor Lecter’s warning for her to leave.  “I also think you were right about the Hobbs angle.” </p><p>Crawford just stares at her for a long moment before saying, “Don’t get too close.”</p><p>“I won’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Doctor Chilton doesn’t show her to the cells the second time, which she is thankful for. It has been two days since her first visit, and this time she felt prepared. With her head held high, she walks to the cells. And stops.</p><p>This time, there is a chair in front of the two cells.</p><p>“Hello,” she greets them, as if not phased at all. “Do you mind if I interrupt?”</p><p>Graham is laying on his bed, right arm above his head, his left hand resting on his stomach, eyes closed. Doctor Lecter was on the edge of his bed, legs crossed, and very clearly sketching Graham. </p><p>“Good evening, Agent Starling,” Doctor Lecter replies. Graham inlines his head in greeting. “I don’t mind at all; Will and I do, after all, only have time on our side.” He stands, placing the paper and graphite sticks on the desk nearby. Starling glimpses at the paper as he did so. Graham wasn't wearing his jumpsuit in it, but an opened button up, the blankets covering his lower half suggestively. She quickly looks away, embarrassed, like a child caught seeing their parents kiss. To hopefully help cover up her embarrassment, she sits down and crosses her ankles.</p><p>Doctor Lecter smiles. “Shall we get started?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Edit (4/16/2021): Hey there's now a playlist for this fic! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5aoY2Gox3D7y1Dj0lcAZ8W?si=F_CC6BD8Rx-NMIC9ZqwPzg</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Pâté</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will hadn’t seen his ghost of Abigail since his and Hannibal’s first tableau together. She was there as they finished shaping the body, the canvas, in front of them. Will had caught her eyes over it, and she smiled at him, a bit melancholic, a bit wistful. She was covered in blood, and it looked natural on her at that point; He rarely saw her without it. </p><p>“Good luck,” she had said. </p><p>Will had peeked at Hannibal next to him, to see if he had a reaction to the ghostly image of their could have been daughter. He didn’t. He just finished carving out the man’s calves for a roast.</p><p>When Will looked back, she was gone. </p><p>Years later, when he saw the agent walk into the room behind Chilton, his first thought was that if Garret Jacob Hobbs had seen her, him killing her might have finally driven him to kill Abigail. </p><p>The perfect appetizer. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m assuming you had a chat with Jack?” Will says, opening his eyes as he sat up from his bed. He’s a bit disappointed, to be honest, at the interruption of his modeling. He deeply enjoys the feeling of Hannibal’s eyes on him, taking him in as if to memorialize him forever. </p><p>“Yes,” Agent Starling says. “And I’m sorry for the deception.” </p><p>“Are you?” Will asks, curious.</p><p>“Yes,” she says again. “For both of us,”</p><p>“We appreciate your honesty, Agent Starling,” Hannibal says. Will doesn’t look at him. What was he thinking? Was he thinking about Abigail’s blood on his hands? Did he even notice the similarities? They didn’t talk about it after the first visit. Was he wondering about the case Agent Starling would be asking them about? Imagining slitting the woman’s throat?</p><p>Will knew that if he looked at Hannibal, he would be able to tell. He still didn’t look. Gotta keep some things surprising, he supposes. It was probably all of them, at once, anyway. </p><p>“So, what’s this case Jack wants us on?”</p><p>“I have to ask first if you're willing to help us,” Agent Starling tells them. Will watches her as she hesitates. “Sirs,” she adds, as if for good measure.</p><p>Will wants to laugh. “Don’t call me ‘sir’,” he says instead. </p><p>“Can I ask why?” </p><p>“It makes me think of teaching.” Will says truthfully. </p><p>“Did you not like teaching?” Agent Starling asks, clearly confused. Will doesn’t have to wonder why. He had a teaching post at the local university when they found them.</p><p>“I didn’t like my students socializing with me. The ‘sir’ implies interaction.”</p><p>“I...see,” Agent Starling’s brows furrows a bit. Something in Will’s chest pangs gently. It's a familiar expression.</p><p>“Why should Hannibal and I help the FBI?”</p><p>“You used to work for them,” Agent Starling says. “You saved lives.” </p><p>“And look how that turned out.” Will gives her a wry smile, letting his bitterness at his situation seep through.</p><p>Agent Starling frowns.</p><p>“Jack Crawford and the FBI have caused my husband a good amount of pain,” Hannibal tells the agent, frowning in disapproval, which Will knows is probably only half real. </p><p>“Well, you have to, haven't you, Doctor Lecter?” Agent Starling questions. </p><p>Will sees Hannibal’s eyes twitch, almost imperceptible, in irritation. Will bites back a small smile at her gall.</p><p>“I helped Will break into who he truly is, Agent Starling. Jack just nearly broke him.”</p><p>“But I’m not,” Will says, now the one irritated. “I’m not broken.” He sees Agent Starling look at him curiously.  “Hannibal and I can take a look, see if we can point out anything obvious.” he says, exasperated. He wants to shoot a glare in Hannibal's direction, but knows there would be no heat in it.</p><p>“It must be a pressing case for Jack to come to us,” Hannibal says conversationally. Will can feel Hannibal’s curiosity, as if it was trailing up his skin like a lover’s touch. “What have they taken to calling this troublesome boy?”</p><p>“Buffalo Bill,” Agent Starling looks at them, clearing waiting for their reaction to the name.</p><p>Will doesn’t give her one. “Who?” he asks. </p><p>Agent Starling blinks in surprise, looking between the two of them. “You don’t...know?”</p><p>“We aren't exactly able to watch the news here,” Will remarks dryly, gesturing around the rooms. Agent Starling flushes.</p><p>“Dr. Chilton has been less than amenable in allowing us any access to the outside.” Hannibal tells her. “Only during our sessions with him does he grace us with any knowledge of current events.”</p><p>“Nothing to entertain ourselves but our memory,” Will says, less to Agent Starling and more towards Hannibal, finally deciding to look at him. “And each other,”</p><p>“Yes,” Hannibal agrees, irritation bleeding into affection while Will looked at him, looking back fondly. Will soaks it up. “Forever,”</p><p>They stare at each other, gazes burning. Will aches deep into his bones.</p><p>Starling clears her throat. “Buffalo Bill has abducted five different women. He keeps them for around three days, and then discards them. Skin is taken,” She stops there for a second. Will doesn’t look at her. “From various places; thigh, back. arm, with no pattern to why.”</p><p>“You have the files, I assume?” Hannibal asks, not looking away. <em> He looks hungry</em>, Will thinks. <em> Good</em>.</p><p>“Yes, sir. Of the most recent murder.” </p><p>Will only stops looking at Hannibal when he hears the telltale sound of the food slots opening and closing.  He walks over and takes the flimsy file from the slot. He glances over the few photos before looking up at Agent Starling. “I’m guessing we’re not allowed to look at these alone?”</p><p>“Yes, Mr. Graham, that’s probably for the best.”</p><p>Will shrugs, telling her a passing, “You can call me Will,” before turning back onto the files. He quickly scans them before closing his eyes. </p><p>In his mind, his eyes open to a corpse at his feet, in the water. The skin on the back was flayed. </p><p>He blinks.</p><p>They were both on land.</p><p>He blinks.</p><p>The skin was on. </p><p>He blinks.</p><p>The corpse was alive, now a living woman. Young. Mid 20’s. Blonde. She looks up at him fearfully, tears in her eyes.</p><p>Will studies her carefully. “You are nothing to me,” he says, knowing the words as true only as they pass his lips. “Your purpose is to help me, but you as a person don't exist. A tool.” He lunges at her- at <em> it </em>, hands on neck, squeezing. “I kill you with my hands, not for intimacy, but control. A knife, gun, or rope might destroy something important.”  The woman, the tool, paws at his hands, but it was weak, even before he started squeezing, and isn't able to even scratch him. “I look at you not to see you die, but to know that you are dead.” Will watches as its bloodshot eyes finally fade out into death. He lets it go.</p><p>A knife is in his hand. “I carefully skin the back, layer by layer,” he narrates. The knife slips through flesh like butter. “I have to be careful. To mess up would mean to have to do this again. This is a long process. I am eager to…” Will pauses. Eager to what? He feels it under his skin, bouncing around with no goal. Eager to what?</p><p>He finishes with the knife, and pulls the skin off slowly, starting from tailbone to neck, shoulder blade to shoulder blade. Once done, he places it aside. Will thinks. The design isn’t finished.</p><p>“You are a good tool,” He says slowly, pondering.  “A key element. I need to showcase that.” His hands go back to its throat, as if on their own free will. Not squeezing. Inspecting. “You’re not special...but by my touch, you will be a part of something, something bigger. A transformation.”  Will closes his eyes. “This is my design.”</p><p>He opens his eyes. </p><p>Both Hannibal and Agent Starling are looking at him. </p><p>“I miss anything?” Will asks, shrugging his shoulders, slipping the skin of this killer off of his own like a coat.</p><p>“No, dear,” Hannibal says. “We were waiting for you before starting.”</p><p>Will raised a brow. Hannibal only calls him ‘dear’ when he wanted to tell him something important. ‘Darling’, ‘my heart’, and ‘my love’ were the names he called Will just because he wanted to, when he was feeling soppy. ‘Dear’ was a warning of a conversation. </p><p>“What do you think he’s doing to the skin?” Will asks Agent Starling, giving Hannibal a knowing look before turning to the agent. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Agent Starling furrows her brows in thought. “It excites him, maybe? Trophies?”</p><p>“Not everyone keeps trophies,” Hannibal lightly scolds. “Will and I didn’t, for example.”</p><p>“You ate your trophies,” Agent Starling argues. “That doesn’t change the fact that you had them.”</p><p>“We don’t think of them as trophies,” Will tells her. </p><p>“What do you think of them as?”</p><p>“Dinner,” Will says, shrugging easily. While Agent Starling doesn't look nauseous, she does look vaguely unsettled at that. “It grows on you,” he tells her, as if to comfort her. Will surprises himself by actually wanting to.</p><p>“You think he’s eating the skin?” Agent Starling, slowly getting over her unease.</p><p>“No,” Hannibal answers. “Though the purpose of this kill is to get the skin.”  </p><p>“He doesn’t care about these women,” Will adds. “They’re a means to an end, and nothing else.”</p><p>“A tool to bring upon his Becoming?” Hannibal questions, lips twitching upward minutely.</p><p>“A Transformation.” Will corrects, eyeing Hannibal closely. And then he notices it. A familiarity in the case. He knows the killer.</p><p>Will could have rolled his eyes. Of course he does.</p><p>“Who thought of the name ‘Buffalo Bill’?” Will asks Agent Starling. “Don’t tell me it was TattleCrime.” </p><p>Starling shakes her head. “No, s-Will,” her face twitches. “A random officer’s ‘joke’, in Kansas City, I think. That’s all you could tell?” Despite her words, her tone isn’t put out; it’s eager. She's getting a taste for it.</p><p>“Come again,” Will tells her, evading her question. “Bring the other case files.”</p><p>He and Hannibal place the file down back into the food slot in unison. </p><p>Agent Starling very obviously tries to smother her disappointment at being sent away. “Would you be okay if I came back tomorrow?” She asks politely of the two of them. <em>Good girl, </em>Will thinks.</p><p>“Anytime would be good for us,” Hannibal assures her.</p><p>“Just have to talk to Chilton about not interrupting our therapy.” Will tacks on.</p><p>“What times are your therapy sessions?” </p><p>“Whenever Chilton feels up to it.”</p><p> </p><p>Will sits down on his bed, one leg bent and the other hanging off the edge, facing the clear wall. His gaze, steely, follows Hannibal’s movements. Hannibal straightens out his sketch papers, lines his pencils, stacks his books. He ignores Will’s eyes, though Will knows he is aware of his gaze. How could he not? Hannibal, once done with his organizing, sits across Will on his own bed.</p><p>“Do you remember our last night in my Baltimore office, Will?”</p><p>Will doesn’t respond. Of course he remembers. </p><p>“When we were burning my patient files,” Hannibal continues on as if Will did reply. “Did you happen to glance at any of them?”</p><p>“I noticed my own,” Will reminds. An admittance in a non-answer. Their specialty. “Why, Doctor Lecter? You have something to share?”</p><p>“It's strange, don’t you think, Will,” Hannibal begins, seemingly apropos of nothing. ”How some people flock towards those they think to view the world in a similar light, only to be sent away?”</p><p>“I wonder what a patient has to do to make you transfer them,” Will says, reading between the lines. “Your track record of being more than tolerant of those with...less than societal approved urges precedes you.”</p><p>“Are you an example of that, Will?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Will smirks, angling his head coquettishly. “Am I?”</p><p>“You are everything.” Hannibal says casually, causing Will’s smirk to soften into a smile, before moving the conversation along. “Is it so impossible to believe that I simply thought that I couldn't help my patient?”</p><p>“No,” Will says. “It’s not. Though your definition of ‘help’ is admittedly different than most.” </p><p>“Yes,” Hannibal agrees. “But no less influential.”</p><p>Will can't help but laugh, a loud, cheerful noise. “Hannibal,” Will grins broadly. “I don’t think anyone can say you’re not an influential person.”</p><p>“You flatter me,”</p><p>“I define you,” Will counters, still grinning. </p><p>“Hm,” Hannibal hums in thought. “And I, you.” Hannibal stands up and gets his drawing supplies, heading back to his bed. Will follows his lead and lays down on the bed, going back to his previous pose before Starling came in. </p><p>“If I did happen to glance at your patient files,” Will tries to hear the soft scratching of Hannibal’s pencil. He can’t, but he can imagine the sound clearly from past circumstances, and brings that forth. As he closes his eyes, he sees them in their bedroom at their last home. He can hear the ocean in the distance, and can feel the heat of the sun on his skin from their bedroom window, the sheets now soft under him. He relaxes. “What would I be looking for?”</p><p>“Did you know, Will, that some moths are able to imitate other animals, such as bees and birds?”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Yes,” Hannibal confirms. “Prey hiding as a predator, taking on the skin of another, seen on the most minute scale. Man is so unused to the contrast, the transformation of one to another is startling.”</p><p>Will keeps his eyes closed, his mind leaving the setting of their bedroom, taking him to Hannibal’s office in Baltimore. He goes through the pages of Hannibal’s patients throughout the years, all the way back to the early 2000s, before placing them in the fire, watching them burn. One file catches his attention.</p><p>He opens his eyes quickly when he realizes what Hannibal meant.</p><p>“Oh,” he says again, in understanding. He licks his lips.</p><p>“Yes,” Hannibal repeats, looking over his sketch at Will. Hungry again. “Indeed.”</p><p>Will closes his eyes again, and starts planning. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>a smaller chapter to day. Apologies for that. Since the story is already finished, I've decided that im going to post every Tuesday and Friday, instead of once a week. Hope yall enjoyed!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Bouillabaisse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Starling barely makes it out of the hospital before she gets called out to.</p><p>“Agent Clarice Starling,” Starling wonders if she could just continue walking to her car, but knows that wouldn't stop the person who called. She stops and turns around.</p><p>“Mrs. Lounds,” she says with distaste. “What now?”</p><p>“Back again in the BSHCI, I see,” Freddie says, smiling, leaning next to the hospital doors. <em> She’s too much red, </em> Starling thinks. Red hair, red coat, red boots. “FBI still unable to solve crimes without the help of psychopaths?”</p><p>“I believe ‘no comment’ is all you're going to get from me, Mrs. Lounds,” Starling heads towards her car.</p><p>“Jack’s really clever using you,” Freddie follows her. Of course she does. Starling sighs.</p><p>“What do you mean by that?” Starling doesn’t look back, digging through her purse to get her car keys. </p><p>“The spitting image of Abigail Hobbs, her ghost comes to gloat at her abusers for her victory over them,” Freddie answers. Starling can basically see the article title in Freddie's words. She stifles a grimace.</p><p>“Abusers?” Starling speaks before realizing it would be better not to interact. <em> In for a penny. </em> “I thought they were her father figures.”</p><p>“Maybe that's what they thought they were,” Freddie tells her, taking advantage of Starling’s pause to sit on the hood of her car. Starling glares at her. “Pretty new age parenting to slit your daughter’s throat, though.”</p><p>In her purse, her hand tightens around her keys. She can feel the ridges press painfully into her skin. She thinks of using the key to stab Freddie in the neck, and uses the image to calm herself a bit.</p><p>“Get off my car,” she hisses. “And stop pissing me off,” </p><p>Freddie does the first demand with a smile. “Are you here for a case, Agent Starling? Or are the Murder Husbands finally getting their Murder Family?”</p><p>Starling violently pulls her keys out of her purse and gets in her car. ”Come talk to me again, and you’ll regret it.”</p><p> </p><p>When Starling goes to work the next day, she heads straight to Crawford’s office. She is tired, up all night finalizing both her official report of what Will and Doctor Lecter said about Buffalo Bill, and her personal one about the men themselves. Her talk with Freddie Lounds motivated her to know anything she could about them. The news of their time in the states had more sordid details than the official files. Starling wonders how she didn’t remember some of them, even if she was dealing with her father’s death at the time.</p><p>Still, when she greets Crawford in the morning, she smiles, and it’s only partially fake. “Good morning, sir,” she says, placing the Buffalo Bill files Will and Doctor Lecter had read, and the official report, down on his desk. “Doctor Lecter and Graham had a few insights.” she tells him. “Though they requested copies of the other murders.”</p><p>“They did, did they?” Crawford asks, not seeming surprised. He takes a drink of his coffee. “Summarize what they said about Buffalo Bill.”</p><p>“It's not about the women that he's taken, but their skin,” Starling tells him, reigning in her excitement of working on the case. “They’re a means to an end. Will used the term ‘transformation.’”</p><p>“He and Lecter <em> were </em> big on that.” Crawford sighs. </p><p>“Permission to let them have access to the other files, sir?” Starling asks.</p><p>“They didn’t ask any questions about you, did they?” Crawford says instead of answering.</p><p>Starling frowns. “No, sir.” She says, before pausing. “Doctor Lecter recognized me at his and Will’s arrest, but nothing else.”</p><p>Crawford nods slowly. “Good, good.”</p><p>Starling waits, impatient, but not showing it.</p><p>“Permission granted.” he finally says.</p><p> </p><p>When she goes to see them this time, Will is asleep, even though it is almost noon. He is on his side, facing Lecter’s side of the cell. His face is peaceful, his chest rising and falling in a rhythmic, soothing motion. Asleep, it almost looks impossible that he could be a cannibalistic serial killer. He just looks like a man in his late 40s, indulging in sleeping late. Starling thinks of her father, briefly, after a tough day at work, asleep on their couch, and quickly sweeps the thought away, locking it away safely.</p><p>“Good morning, Agent Starling,” Doctor Lecter greets her. He is at his desk, sketching what looks like Notre Dame. “How are you?”</p><p>“Good morning,” She replies politely, sitting down in the chair. “I’m good, sir, and you?” </p><p>“I’m very well, Agent Starling, thank you,” Lecter sets his graphite stick down, looking over at Will adoringly for a brief, heated moment, before looking over at Starling. “I’m afraid my Will won’t be able to help you at the moment. Even now, his thoughts and dreams fight him, and he so rarely gets a goodnight sleep, especially here, so I try to let him rest when he can.”</p><p>“That’s...sweet.” Starling says slowly. And it was, she supposes. Sweeter than she thought Lecter was capable of. </p><p>“Now,” Doctor Lecter stands up. “How can I help you? I assume you brought the other files?”</p><p>“Yes, sir, that is correct,” Starling pauses, hesitant. “I don’t think it would be allowed for me to leave either Will or you with the files without discussing your profile first…and…”</p><p>“And you believe Will would be the best help, out of the two of us,” Doctor Lecter nods, and even though his tone isn't cruel at all, Starling has to contain a wince. “Of course, I understand- I’ll go wake him up. Hopefully he'll be able to take a nap, later.” </p><p>Doctor Lecter kneels down near where Will’s head is, bringing his hand to the glass. “Will,” he says simply, not quite whispering. Will’s eyes snap open immediately, though even Starling could see there is still sleep in them.</p><p>“Huh?” Will mumbles. </p><p>“Agent Starling is here, my love.”</p><p>“Right,” Will yawns, stretching his arms behind him. “Okay.” He gets out of bed the same time that Doctor Lecter stands up, and Starling is momentarily amazed at how in sync they were. Like mirrors. “Morning, Agent Starling,” Will says to her.</p><p>“Good morning, Will,” Starling looks at him in his drowsy state, and frowns. “Would you be okay to do your, um…” She gestures to her head. “Your thing?”</p><p>Will laughs, and even though Starling has a feeling it isn't at her, she cringes. “‘My thing’,” he repeats. “If I’m able to do it with my brain on fire, I’m sure I’d be able to do it right after waking, isn't that right, Hannibal?"</p><p> Starling looks at the man, and feels a faint aura of humor around him.</p><p> “Indeed.”</p><p>Starling puts all the files in the food slots, closing them before saying, “All five bodies were found washed up, each body in a different river,” she tells them. “Third one found was the first one killed, her body was the only one he took the trouble to weigh down. Bottom file is second to last found, the last one you read yesterday.”</p><p>“<em>Warshed</em>,” Will echoes, and it isn't until she hears the word back at her, in the same cadence as her own voice, that she realizes she accidentally let her accent slip through. She flushes, embarrassed. </p><p>“Don’t feel self-conscious,” Doctor Lecter says soothingly, absently going through the first file. </p><p>“You hide it pretty well,” Will encourages. “West Virginia?”</p><p>“Yes,” Starling feels her skin itch.</p><p>“We all come from something, Agent Starling,” Doctor Lecter tells her. “Nothing to be ashamed of, no matter what class it is.”</p><p>Will smiles, leaning forward as if to tell a secret. “When I have one too many whiskeys Hannibal likes to tell me how lovely it is when my accent comes out; Tries to tell me I shouldn't hide it." Will shrugs. "It happens, don’t worry.”</p><p>“You’re from New Orleans?” She remembers that he was a cop there, once upon a time. Will shakes his head.</p><p>“No, that's just where I thought I'd settle. More or less grew up everywhere along the Mississippi. You ever traveled, Agent Starling?”</p><p> “Yes,” she says shortly.<em> They didn’t ask any questions about you, did they?  </em>“West Virginia to Montana to Virginia.”</p><p>“Why Montana?”</p><p>“I didn’t really have a choice.”</p><p>Will hums. “Orphan?”</p><p>Though Starling tries to contain it, she can’t help the spasm that takes control of her face. </p><p>“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Will echoes his husband, and goes to grab the files. “So is Hannibal,” he opens up the first one, eyes scanning the pages as he asks casually, “Father?”</p><p>Starling doesn’t respond. Orphan means both parents are dead, <em> both</em>, why did Will point out her father? How did he know? She closes her eyes.</p><p>“Clarice?” Will’s voice is soft. Gentle. <em>Soothing</em>.</p><p>“Yes,” she says. She is ashamed to hear her voice break. “My father.” </p><p>“How old were you?” Will asks her. </p><p>“I don’t want to tell you.”</p><p>She hears him hum, and then the only sounds were pages flipping. She opens her eyes after a minute. </p><p>Will’s eyes are close, like he did yesterday, both hands out, not moving except the occasional twitching finger. Doctor Lecter is reading the file, not looking at her. </p><p>She sighs. She thinks it might be relief. It might not be, though.</p><p>“What is it about your father’s death that haunts you, Agent Starling?” Doctor Lecter asks curiously.</p><p>“I’m not in therapy, Doctor Lecter,” Starling says, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself. </p><p>“And I am no longer a psychiatrist.” He turns the next page of the file. </p><p>“Then why do you care?” She forcefully keeps her tone courteous. </p><p>“Will and I must get something out of this arrangement, don’t we?” He smiles. “And you're a very remarkable young woman, it seems. We both think it would have been wonderful to know you, outside these walls.”</p><p>“A quid pro pro?” Starling questions unhappily, though she feels a slight thrill at being called 'remarkable'. “I don’t feel comfortable talking about my father.”</p><p>“Did he die violently, I wonder.”</p><p>“Please stop, Doctor Lecter." </p><p>“Agent Starling, please, call me Hannibal.” he turns a page.</p><p>A pause. “It doesn’t feel right to call you that,” she says honestly.</p><p>“Why is that?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” she shifts on her feet. </p><p>“You called Will by his name,” he points out.</p><p>“Yes,” she says, and nothing more.</p><p>“Do you feel more comfortable with Will, then you do with me, Agent Starling?”</p><p>Starling stops, thinking it over. Both men were unsettling, yet calming. Like looking at the waves crashing violently below you, aware that one misstep will drag you down. She doesn’t know how she could be wary of one and not the other; they were, in her head, the same man split in two. She fittingly thinks of a <em> Plato's Symposium </em>. “No,” she answers. “My level of comfort with you two is the same.”</p><p>Doctor Lecter puts the first file down, and looks at her straight on. “Are you afraid of Will and I, Agent Starling?”</p><p>“I think it would be foolish, not to,” she replies. </p><p>“We are caged,” Doctor Lecter reminds her. “Does the tourist fear the tiger in the zoo, knowing that no matter how hard the tiger smashes against the walls of his prison, it will never break?”</p><p>“No,” she shakes her head. “But she should.” </p><p>“Yes,” Doctor Lecter smiles, and this time she sees his teeth. “She should.” </p><p>Starling isn’t able to respond to that, as quite suddenly, Will opens his eyes, taking in a deep breath. He cracks his neck in both directions, rolling his shoulders, as he says, “Interesting,”</p><p>“Interesting?” Starling echoes. </p><p>“Yes,” Will says, turning to look at Doctor Lecter. ”Interesting.” He continues this staring contest before turning to look at her. “Have you ever read TattleCrime, Clarice?” </p><p>“I try not to.” Starling says, unable to completely suppress the slight grimace at the name.</p><p>She knows Will caught it.</p><p>“Why not? Freddie Lounds still hounding the FBI?”</p><p>“Yes,” Starling says. <em> And me. </em> “She is, though that is not why I try to keep my interactions with both Mrs. Freddie Lounds and her website to the minimum.”</p><p>“Oh?” Doctor Lecter inquires, humored. </p><p> “I find it...tasteless.” Starling says honestly. Both Will and Doctor Lecter both blink in unison at the word ‘tasteless.’ She wonders why. “And she irks me.”</p><p>“TattleCrime is all we get of the outside world now,” Will tells her. “Chilton, it seems, has struck up a friendship with Freddie. He loves to show us her articles during therapy.”</p><p>“Excuse me, but what does this have to do with Buffalo Bill?”</p><p>“We’ll continue to help with the case,” Will tells her. “But we will need something in return.”</p><p>“Why?” Starling asks, stumped on the suddenly stalemate.</p><p>“Hannibal and I must get something out of this arrangement, don’t we?” Will says, and Starling almost jumps in surprise at the echoing words from only a few minutes ago. Did he hear it subconsciously?</p><p>“What do you want?” She asks, hesitantly. </p><p>“To be transferred somewhere else,” Doctor Lecter tells her.</p><p>“Together.” adds Will.</p><p>“A better hospital?”</p><p>“If you like,” Doctor Lecter says, head lowered in allowance. “Our main goal, of course, is to get out from under Dr. Chilton’s care.”</p><p>“I’d say you have it pretty good, considering.” Starling says, gesturing to the cells in front of her. “The books, the drawing, the ability to see your spouse. Most would say you both should have the death penalty, or be kept in a locked closest.”</p><p>“Yes,” Doctor Lecter agrees. “Most would say that.”</p><p>“But what about Chilton?” Will inquires. “Imagine what he does, no recording, no witnesses. He confessed to less than ethical treatment of me when I first came here, years and years before I did any real crimes.”</p><p>“And that was before he had any detrimental experiences with either of us.” Doctor Lecter adds. “He has become very angry throughout the years. Such feelings would fester in a man, and who knows how those feelings could manifest into actions.”</p><p>“A conflict of interest, really,” Will says. “How could our therapy ever become <em>beneficial</em> this way?”</p><p>“Are you saying...what? Chilton has been abusing you?” </p><p>“We’re not saying anything, Agent Starling.” Doctor Lecter says, a twinkle in his eyes. “Except that we would like to be transferred.” </p><p>“What you hear beyond that is up to you.” Will nods. </p><p>“You’re trying to trick me.” Starling says, shifting on her feet.</p><p>“Or maybe we trust you.” Doctor Lecter suggests.</p><p>That stops her for a moment.</p><p>“I can see what I can do,” Starling finally says. “But I don’t think the odds are in your favor.”</p><p>“Thank you, Agent Starling.” Doctor Lecter says.  “Now, we’ll read the rest of these over, and you can see Jack Crawford about that transfer.”</p><p>Starling bites her lip. While no one had told her <em>not</em> to leave them with the copied files, she knows Crawford would look down on it. Though, Starling thinks, if they're going to postpone their help, perhaps it would be best they're read up on it before her next visit, saving as much time as they could... “Okay,” </p><p>“Until then, Agent Starling.” Doctor Lecter says with a smile.</p><p>Starling stands up, but doesn't head towards the doorway, not yet. “What if Crawford doesn’t okay a transfer?”</p><p>Will grins at her. “Are you asking if you can visit us, Clarice?”</p><p>“No,” she says, briskly turning around and walking out of the room.</p><p> </p><p>Starling has her phone out, scrolling through her contacts to get to Crawford’s number, walking down the stairs to the hospital’s exist, when she is ambushed. </p><p>“Agent Starling,” Chilton greets her, appearing suddenly through a doorway. <em> Waiting, </em>Starling thinks darkly.</p><p>“Dr. Chilton,” she says, cautiously. There’s a look in his eyes she doesn’t like, feeling like a snail crawling over her brain. “How are you?”</p><p>“Fine, fine,” he says, and then gets right into it. “This is the third time you’ve come to my hospital, Agent Starling, and I see you're not heading to my office.”</p><p>“Yes, you're correct.”</p><p>“You interview my patients, refusing to tell me anything of what they say?” he asks her, pompous, turning in front of her so he blocks her path. </p><p>“I’m questioning them about a case, Doctor Chilton,” Starling says, his tone and actions rankling her. “I’m not able to talk to you about the details of it.”</p><p>“Oh, but you talk about more than the case with them, don’t you, Agent Starling?” Chilton’s face contorts, a dreadful famiscile of a sneer. “The three of you are just regular chatty kathys.”</p><p>Starling realizes with a sick drop in her stomach that Chilton must have recorded their conversations. “Are your apparent recordings pertinent to their therapy, Doctor Chilton?” </p><p>
  <em> Imagine what he does, no recording, no witnesses. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> How could our therapy ever become beneficial this way? </em>
</p><p>“You understand, of course, that I cannot discuss that with you, as well.” The sneer is more pronounced now. “Doctor-Patient confidentiality.” </p><p>“What do you want, Doctor Chilton?” Starling snarks, forcefully moving around Chilton to head back downstairs. She wishes she could push him down them. “Come to deny the claims they lay at my feet?” </p><p>“It’s not true,” Chilton hobbles after her as quickly as he can. “What they told you- another lie to disclaim me, I tell you.” </p><p>“It’s not me to decide whether or not they’re lying.” Starling goes back on her phone, tapping on Crawford’s contact but not hitting 'call' just yet.</p><p>“But you believe them.” Chilton says, and the incredulous nature in his voice makes her stop. Does she? She turned back to face the doctor. She didn’t trust him, she realizes. Maybe he isn’t doing anything untoward, but Will is right, isn’t he? There is too much bad blood between the men in the cells above and their captor for therapy to be productive. Though what could be productive therapy for Will and Hannibal? </p><p>“Your past speaks for itself,” she says instead of examining those thoughts, because his past <em> did </em> speak for itself. She would not be surprised if he was doing... <em> something </em> to Will and Doctor Lecter. They don't need her help. They don't deserve it. She wants to give it, anyway. She doesn't try to wonder what that means about her. “ <em> Goodnight </em>, Dr. Chilton.” Starling turns away from Chilton and hits the call button.</p><p> </p><p>“Clarice Starling,” Crawford greets her on the second ring. “Just who I wanted to talk to.”</p><p>“Sir?”</p><p>“Another body was found, Elk River, West Virginia.” Starling hears the sound of rusting papers on the other end. “Are you still in Baltimore?” </p><p>“Yes sir, I’m still outside the hospital.” </p><p>“They give any insight?”</p><p>Starling sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “They say they weren't going to work on the case anymore, unless they get transferred together somewhere, out from under Chilton’s care.”</p><p>“They say why?”</p><p>Starling hesitates, biting her lower lip. “They implied that they were not...comfortable with the conflict of interest Dr. Chilton might have, regarding their care.”</p><p>It is Crawford’s turn to sigh. “Right. First, the body, second, their demands. Head towards Quantico, Starling; a plane will be here in two hours. If you're not there, then you get left behind.”</p><p>“I’ll be there, sir,”</p><p> </p><p>Starling doesn’t get a change to ask Crawford his thoughts on Will and Doctor Lecter’s deal, as the moment she, Crawford, and a man named Jimmy Price who she only met one, got on the private jet, case files are shown about, and the two men leave her mind, at least for a moment.</p><p>They come back when Crawford gets a call after the plane lands, while on the drive to the river. “Hello?” he answers. There's a short pause, Starling unable to hear the voice on the other end. “About what?”  Whatever the person on the other end says, Starling guesses it's not good for her, by the way Crawford quickly side eyes her from the passenger. “Thanks, Z.”</p><p>“Sir?” Starling asks as Crawford puts his phone back in his pocket and quickly gets his tablet out of one of his bags, typing away. Starling makes eye contact with Price in the rearview mirror. He shrugs.</p><p>“You want to explain this, Starling?” Crawford asks, voice hard, as he turns to hand her the tablet.</p><p>Hesitantly, Starling grabs it and looks. She can’t help her wince at what she sees. It’s a TattleCrime article, the headline reading, red and bold, <b> <em>MURDER HUSBANDS GETTING A MURDER FAMILY?</em> </b></p><p>Starling closes her eyes. <em> Stupid, </em> she berates herself. <em> Shouldn't have talked to her at all. </em> She steels herself before opening her eyes. Under the headline was a picture of her walking outside the hospital the first time, her face drawn in anger. <em> I’ll kill her, </em>she thinks furiously, before starting to read the article.</p><p>
  <em> ‘Hannibal ‘The Cannibal’ Lecter and Will Graham, better known as the Murder Husbands, were arrested just under a year ago for a multitude of crimes, most prominently murder and cannibalism, though that hasn’t seem to stop them branching out their family tree. Sources at the Hospital for the Criminally Insane where the Murderous Martial Duo are kept say the two of them have been visited often by one Agent Clarice Starling. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Is Agent Starling, graduated from the Academy only a few short months before the Husband's arrest, visiting these men under FBI command, our men in blue unable to hunt for dangerous men without hiring them, or maybe, is something even more sinister going on?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “She talks to them about more than about a case,” an anonymous source at the hospital says. “You can hear them, chatting, talking about fathers, and growing up.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Who is Clarice Starling? A FBI agent during her job? A woman falling under the charms of two notorious killers? Or is she the next Will Graham, a psychopath in the midst of the men and women sworn to protect us? When questioned outside the hospital after her latest visit, Starling had only this to say, ”Come talk to me again, and you’ll regret it.”’ </em>
</p><p>“Sir,” Starling croaks, unable to read more, fury turned to mortification. She turns off the tablet, not wanting to see another word of it, handing it back to Crawford. </p><p>“I asked you to go to them to find out more about Buffalo Bill,” Crawford says angrily. “Not-”</p><p>“Lecter only asks me about my father, yesterday, when W- when Graham was reading the reports. I told him to stop, as it had nothing to do with the case. That’s it, it's not what she's making it out to be.”</p><p>Crawford regards her. “Nothing else? They didn’t ask you any more questions?”</p><p>
  <em> West Virginia? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You ever traveled, Agent Starling? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Orphan? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> How old were you? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Do you feel more comfortable with Will, then you do with me, Agent Starling? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Are you afraid of Will and I, Agent Starling? </em>
</p><p>“No,” she lies. “Nothing else.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Remise en Bouche</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hannibal thinks these ‘therapy’ appointments, if they could even be called that, are very tedious indeed.</p><p>Alana did better. It’s too bad she flew away, leaving Frederick in charge of the nest.</p><p>“How many books have you sold recently, Frederick?” Hannibal asks. Frederick grinds his teeth together, seething.</p><p>“We’re not discussing my career as an author, Lecter,” he hisses. </p><p>“Not many, I assume,” Hannibal says, jovial, as if Frederick didn’t respond. “As it seems you need to work still.” Hannibal feels a curl of satisfaction as he watches Frederick’s hand spasm, almost dropping his pen. “Is your writing that bad?” Hannibal muses. “Or are you fearful that your face is not made for the back of a book anymore?”</p><p>“Why don’t we talk about what you told Agent Clarice yesterday? Hm?” </p><p>“Now, Frederick,” Hannibal says in mock disappointment. “I’m sure you know that the FBI would frown upon me discussing a case, especially considering how loose lipped you are with your patient's details.” Hannibal pauses, as if in thought. “Well, singular lip.” A smirk crawls up his own lips at the sound of pure outrage Frederick let out.</p><p>“You lied to her, told her I’m- I’m-”</p><p>“Your hearing must be going, Frederick,” Hannibal says. “I did not accuse you of anything. Why, do you have a guilty conscience?”</p><p>Frederick glowers. “Freddie thinks you two are trying to make her into a sort of ‘Murder Daughter’ for your Murder Husbands fantasy.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Hannibal says noncommittally. “As I remember, nothing about that was a fantasy, as shown by my continued stay here.”</p><p>“So Freddie’s right?”</p><p>Hannibal shakes his head. He and Will both see something in Clarice Starling, true, that Hannibal had once seen in Abigail, who he thought would have been the perfect daughter for Will and him- he still does. Her death does not change that.</p><p>There’s a burning anger in Clarice that Hannibal would love to stoke, an aloof detachment he would love to witness in full. Clarice, Hannibal thinks, could have a fantastic transformation, just given the right push. Will, he knows, sees more in her than that. Another chance, maybe. Hannibal does not know if it is purely because of her resemblance to Abigail, but he suspects not. Will is not that shallow. He is not Garret Jacob Hobbs.</p><p>As much as Clarice makes Hannibal think of Abigail, she equally makes him think of Mischa.</p><p>Curious. Frank. <em> Plucky </em> . And, yet, a kindness that he did not see in Abigail. Abigail cared for others because that kept her safe; a commendable action Hannibal could not fault her in. Clarice, however, Hannibal knows, genuinely worries that Chilton might be somehow abusing his power over them. She worries for <em> them, </em> knowing what they are<em>. </em>Strange, he thinks, yet not unwelcomed. She is much more soft than anyone he has minded in a long, long, time.</p><p>He looks at Clarice, and sees a meld of Mischa and Abigail, bled into this bright new person. He wonders, when all is said and done, what part of the game she will play.</p><p>“I didn’t know you were side-lining as a journalist for TattleCrime, Frederick.” Hannibal says instead of telling Frederick any of his thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>He’s silent when he comes back from his session with Frederick, giving the orderlies who unwrap him and take off his mask a simple, “Thank you,” and nothing more. He knows Will notices. He always does. </p><p>“Penny for your thoughts?” Will asks, trying to fold a piece of paper correctly. He’s gotten into origami, recently. Hannibal knows he misses working with his hands, both with knives and with more conventional tools. Hannibal tries to help with the origami sometimes, but there’s only so much he can do from behind the wall.</p><p>“I would have thought they cost more than that,” Hannibal replies, heading towards his own desk. He doesn’t sit down, instead tapping his fingertips against the wood.</p><p>“Well, when I can get them for free,” Will looks up at Hannibal through his lashes, giving Hannibal one of his easy smiles. The sight of it soothes Hannibal like nothing else. </p><p>“My thoughts have seemed to have traveled in the past, to places where I loathe to stay.” Hannibal tells him. Will’s smile turns into a frown. That soothes Hannibal almost as much. His lovely, dreadful boy.</p><p>“Would you like me to travel with you?” Will asks him, setting his admittedly awful origami down and getting off his desk. It might be a fly. Or perhaps a beetle?</p><p>“I want you to never leave my side, Will, even in this.” Hannibal tells him honestly, as he tells almost everything to Will now. Will does not smile, but his eyes have a glint in them that Hannibal knows well. It’s something like love, though it's also something so much more than that.</p><p><em> Conjured</em>, one of them thinks. Hannibal is not sure which one.</p><p>“I’ve never asked you,” Will says, walking towards him until he reaches the glass, hip cocked to the side, pressing against it. Hannibal imagines breaking the glass with his hands to get to Will, who would kiss each and every stinging cut. “What was she like?” </p><p>Hannibal doesn’t answer for a moment, and looks away from Will as he himself steps toward the glass. Will places a hand on his end of it, and Hannibal thinks of him all those years ago, fighting a dragon. “She was small,” he tells him, quietly, too soft to be heard by the microphones and cameras they both knew to be in the room. “Always so small for her age.” He swallows, finding it suddenly painful to talk. <em> Oh, Mischa, </em> he thinks, <em> always making me human, even now. </em>“Her hair was a golden blonde when she was born, but every year it darkened, and then it was the color of walnuts.” He puts his own hand on the glass, on Will’s, and he imagines he can feel the heat and calluses of the hand. “She wanted to know about the world. She more than once tried to fight snakes when she saw them attacking birds.” The memory, although terribly painful, makes his lips twitch in a small smile. He thinks of his Will, and the strays. His love, it seems, has a common factor. The protection of those viewed as weak, even through the reigns of violence. </p><p>"She would have loved you," Hannibal tells him. "Loved what you make me into."</p><p>Will gives him a bittersweet smile. "I'm sure I would would have loved her too." The smiles turns more bitter than sweet, suddenly. “We leave a trail of would-be daughters in our path, Hannibal.” Will whispers to him, seemingly changing the subject, though Hannibal knows better. He rests his head against the glass, Hannibal following suit, forehead to forehead. Hannibal wishes for Will’s breath ghosting across his face. Oh, how he misses it terribly. If Hannibal concentrates, he can smell the soap Will uses to bathe, but it doesn't matter much, as Hannibal has to use the same soap. Indistinguishable. “Mischa, Abigail,” Will pauses. ”Clarice…”</p><p>“Almost everyone wants a legacy, Will.” Hannibal replies. “To know that your achievements are not in vain, and will live on after you. Some would say that to leave a legacy is to live forever.”</p><p>“We already have a legacy, Hannibal.” Will sighs. “We’re the new and approved Bonnie and Clyde. I doubt we’ll be forgotten anytime soon.”</p><p>Hannibal hums to show his displeasure. That’s not what he meant. “A legacy of two killers and a legacy of a married couple is different.” </p><p>He sees Will fight a smile at the term ‘killers’. Hannibal didn’t like using the term often, finding it distasteful for its pedestrian nature. They were more than that. <em> Anyone can be a killer, but so few can be an artist. </em></p><p>“Is there a difference?” Will debates. “Creating life, ending life. It's the same reason you decided to be a surgeon; To hold life in your hand, one way or another.” Will pauses, thinking. “Our acts and designs tell the story of who we are, both to each other and to the world. They don’t know us truly, but they know enough.” He huffs. “We’re getting off track. I had a point to make.”</p><p>“Yes, you did,” Hannibal agrees. “Tell me Will, do you think of Agent Starling with emotions tinged with sadness, for what you feel you had lost, or for something else, perhaps the hope of something to gain?”</p><p>“I believe the answer to that is yes.” Will closes his eyes, his eyelashes falling delicately against his cheekbones. Hannibal’s heart aches at the sight, and he thinks, senselessly, <em> I miss you. </em>“But what do you think, when you think of her?”</p><p>“As always, Will, you and I are in harmony.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>When Clarice comes to them the next day, the first thing she asks is this, “Did you see TattleCrime?”</p><p>“No,” Hannibal answers.</p><p> “Why?” Will asks, confused. He glances at Hannibal, and sees clarity light his eyes. Hm.</p><p>“Nothing,” Clarice quickly says. “Just- thought Chilton might have said something.” She scowls slightly, so familiar, and Will blinks for a minute, clearly his vision. </p><p>“You look a lot like her, you know.” He states, soft and casual. His eyes scan her face before closing. <em> Better this way, </em> he thinks. Can’t get them confused.</p><p>“I know,” she replies, “but I’m not.” Will inclines his head in agreement, eyes still closed. She isn’t, he knows. But she’s enough that the seeds have been planted, so to speak. The tree is growing and Claice is expanding into her own person in Will’s mind. Someone who thrives on the violence they don’t allow themselves to indulge in. Someone, Will knows, can wish a death on one and still try to help another, with no dissonance. The familiarity of it is shocking.</p><p> “She would have been in her thirties, now.” He tells Clarice. Eyes still closed, he can <em> feel </em>Clarice’s curiosity, and something along the lines of guilt, but not, from Hannibal. Something hits him then. “She would have almost been the age I was, when I met Hannibal.” He opens his eyes to look at Hannibal, to catch his reaction before he closes it off. He only manages to catch surprise, as if he too never thought of Abigail aging beyond her permanent 19.</p><p>Clarice hesitates.  “Do you miss her?”</p><p>Will tilts his head side to side as if weighing his options. “How can you miss something you never really had?” he asks. “Or something you never really lost?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” she answers honestly, softly, before lightly shaking her head, as if to shake off her thoughts. </p><p>“You were bleeding recently,” Hannibal says. Will can’t see a single mark on Clarice, but trusts his husband’s nose. Clarice’s startled expression also helps.</p><p>“It's just a scratch,” she assures them. “A loose rock scraped me.”</p><p>“Are you okay?” Will asks, concerned. </p><p>“Yes,” Clarice answers, and then, “Why do you do that? Do you mean it? You are part of the most prolific serial killing duo, you <em> ate </em> people for years, and yet-”</p><p>“And yet I’m kind to you?” Will says softly. “With no other motivations, than to be kind?”</p><p>“There must be a manipulation driving your actions,” Clarice replies, voice less than certain. “Some ploy.”</p><p>“Why?” Will asks, stands up from where he was sitting on his desk, walking over to Clarice. He can see that she holds her ground to show she isn’t afraid of him, while at the same time her hand slightly shakes. “Does one act automatically prohibit the other? I saved stray dogs whenever I could, wherever we went; I once carved a man up so he resemembed a firefly. I gladly saved many lives while I was a special agent; one of the happiest moments in my life was when I first gutted a man with Hannibal.” He looks over at Hannibal, whose expression was so open with devotion that Will thinks of a god looking at his most loyal follower. That could get to someone’s head, but he knows he looks at Hannibal the same way. </p><p> He turns to Clarice again. She looks afraid, but also like she's hanging onto every word. “I am in a mental hospital for the criminally insane under five life sentences; I want you to be <em> happy </em>. How can those contrasting principles co exist? What must live inside me to do what is viewed as wicked, and seek the beauty in it gladly, while at the same time benevolent? What do you think that makes me, Clarice?”</p><p>“That’s not why I’m here.” She doesn’t answer, voice raw. She looks dizzy. Will has to stop himself from asking, <em> See? See? </em> “We found another body, in Elk River.”</p><p>“Were you there to retrieve it, Agent Starling?” Hannibal asks.</p><p>“Yes,” she says. “I also found a cocoon in her throat.” She whips towards Will, a sudden fire blooming in her. “<em>Transformation </em>?” he calls back. “You know more than you both are letting on.” </p><p>“Do we?” Will asks, amused. <em> Duh</em>, he can’t help but think. </p><p>“You know the killer,” <em> Clever girl. </em></p><p>“If we did?” Hannibal asks. ”We told you what we wanted in return for our help.”</p><p>Clarice huffs, but doesn’t look surprised.</p><p>“Do you remember your first time seeing a dead body, Agent Starling?” Will asks. </p><p>“Yes, it was my father’s.” So matter of fact.</p><p>“I don’t mean at a funeral- a fresh one. On the scene.”</p><p>“It was yours. <em>The</em> <em>Last Supper</em>.” The ones that got you two caught, she didn’t say. Will appreciates that. It was a beautiful one; he thinks fondly back on it often. It was a lot of work after all, six bodies in total.</p><p>“How did you feel?” Hannibal asks. “All those bodies, all at once?”</p><p>“Scared,” Starling’s eyes dance between Will and Hannibal, wide and blue. “And then...exhilarated.”</p><p>Will looks at her, and feels himself displaced, sent back to the past. </p><p>
  <em> I felt terrified. And then I felt powerful. </em>
</p><p>The look on Clarice’s face was familiar too.</p><p>
  <em> It felt good. </em>
</p><p>“As an orphan, did you ever live in an orphanage, Agent Starling?” Hannibal asks her.</p><p>She nods. “Not at first,”</p><p>“You stayed with family, at first,” Will doesn't ask, but states. Clarice answers anyway.</p><p>“Yes. With my cousin. On a farm.”</p><p>Will hums in acknowledgment, closing his eyes to get a better image. “Pigs?” he asks, thinking of the Vergers. </p><p>“Horses,” a pause. “And sheep,” she says, and through the last word, Will can tell there's more to it than that. </p><p>“Ever caught them butchering the spring lambs?” he asks, trying to sharpen the image.  As he says it, he imagines a young Clarice, not even a teenager yet; her eyes are wide, vulnerable, but not weak. Her shoulders are straight, ready for confrontation. It seems fitting.</p><p>“Yes,” Clarice says, and then quickly adds. “I shouldn't talk to you about my personal life.”</p><p>“Afraid of us gossiping?” Hannibal asks with humour. “Or afraid of someone hearing?”</p><p>Clarice doesn’t answer, and Will opens his eyes. Her face is open in conflict, and, Will realizes with slight surprise, longing.  “Afraid of someone hearing, yes.” She answers. Will nods. “You’ve been asking me personal questions about myself,” Clarice states, straightening up. “May I ask some of my own?”</p><p>    “Quid pro pro,” Hannibal almost laughs, like it's a joke between them. </p><p>“Can I ask why you two got married?” Clarice asks, and Will can feel his mouth twitch into a smile. Personal, indeed.</p><p>“Is us being in love not enough?” Hannibal wonders.</p><p>“No,” Clarice says, and Will knows that she means <em> ‘no, it's not enough’ </em> and ‘ <em> no, that’s not it,’.</em> “It just seems too...Common man, is all.”</p><p>“Hannibal wants to claim me, in every way, and that includes more of the more mundane ways.” Will says this casually, as if he doesn’t know how crazy that sounds. He does, he just feels the same way. He was the one to ask Hannibal to marry him, after all.</p><p>Clarice furrows her brows in a way that Will is familiar with now; she's digesting what he’s saying.</p><p>“What did Jack say about our deal, Clarice?” Will asks her. She shakes her head.</p><p>“Nothing,” she tells them. “He wanted to pay attention to the new body, first.” All her frustrations are painted over her face and voice; her frustrations at them for not being entirely helpful, her frustrations at Jack for not immediately accepting the deal, and her frustrations at herself for wanting to talk to them.</p><p>“Please tell me his name,” She doesn’t beg, which Will silently applauds.</p><p>“Only with the deal, Clarice,” Hannibal reminds her. </p><p>Clarice sighs. “I’ll bring it up to Crawford again when I see him.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I love writing from Hannibal’s POV. It’s just: *is a bitch* *likes to murder* *in love with Will Graham* *Is a bitch again*</p><p>Also if anyone wants to follow, my Hannibal side blog is gothicheroinegraham.tumblr.com</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Saltibarsciai</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Starling has a nightmare that night- Or, it should have been a nightmare. It didn’t feel like one.</p><p>    She’s at the opening of a huge barn, the roof splintering open like a ribcage, the full moon’s light pouring in, shining like a spotlight in the middle of the barn. A lamb is there underneath it, looking up at her.</p><p>“Not everyone keeps trophies,” Doctor Lecter’s voice rings out in the shadows of the barn. She looks around, trying to see him, but there’s no one there.</p><p>“You did,” She hears herself say, walking towards the lamb. It looks up at her, not afraid. It should be. <em> I’m not caged. </em></p><p>“Are you exhilarated, Clarice?” Will’s voice joins in the darkness. “Watching them butcher the spring lambs?”</p><p>A hand reaches out from behind the lamb, but she can’t see whose it is, where it comes from, beyond darkness. “Wait.” Starling says, reaching her own hand out, softly petting the head of the lamb. It’s eyes are wide. Human.</p><p>The hand grips under the jaw of the lamb, pulling it up. Starling’s hand on the head helps keep it in position. Another hand appears on the other side of the lamb’s neck, holding a small knife. Starling doesn't let go of the lamb’s head, even as the blade cuts across the lamb’s throat. It screams. Blood doesn’t spray out in a way Starling knows it should; It pours out of the cut like water out of a fountain, black, and soon the blood has flooded the barn, the warmth seeping into her shoes, her pants, her shirt. Her blood soaked hand slips, and she lets the lamb go. She can’t find the lamb anymore, but she can still hear it’s screaming in her ear. She’s going to drown with that sound in her ear. It’s a lovely thought. She closes her eyes. “I want you to be happy,” Will tells her. </p><p>She wakes up out of breath, shivering. Ardellia, still asleep, is curled up next to her. Her curtains are closed, yet she can see morning light peeking out. Starling looks at her bedside digital clock, blinking as the red lights paint the room in blood. She has to blink again to clear the image. <em> 5:38 am. </em></p><p>Starling sighs. It’s not out of relief.</p><p> </p><p>Whenever she can, she makes Ardellia breakfast. Their apartment is small, and the kitchen is really a singular stove oven, a sink, and a small counter, but if she wakes up early from a dream, she tries her best. Ardellia never complains, even if it wasn't anything more special than eggs, sausage and toast. Ardelia has always been the cook in the relationship. </p><p>Ardellia is kinder than Starling knows she deserves; she’s the ‘shirt of off my back’ kind of person, no matter whose she’s giving the shirt too. Starling is, she’s self-aware, more particular about who can get her goodwill. She tries not to think about how, apparently, the Graham-Lecter couple get it.</p><p>    They were eating breakfast together when she saw the news about Catherine Martin. The news was on in the living room, volume low, though Starling jumps up when she hears the words ‘Buffalo Bill’. She rushed into the room, grabbing the remote on her way in, turning the volume up.</p><p>“...police indicate that the girl's blouse has been identified, sliced up the back, in what has become a grim, all-too-familiar calling card,” The news anchor says, “Young Catherine Martin is the only daughter of Senator Ruth Martin, the senator from Tennessee.”</p><p>Starling stops listening for a moment, turning, blank faced, to look at Ardellia. Ardellia only nods her head. “I’ll put yours in tupperware.” she says.</p><p> </p><p>She turns on the radio when she gets in her car, heading towards Quantico. She hears Senator Martin repeat her daughter’s name, over and over again.</p><p>
  <em> “My daughter is Catherine.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Catherine is very gentle and kind.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Treat Catherine better than the world has treated you.” </em>
</p><p>She knows why the Senator is doing it- it's harder to cut and kill someone if they’re a person, not just an object, but she can’t help thinking it's in vain. Bill probably isn’t watching the news, and if he is, some woman he doesn't know repeating the name of someone he already thinks of as a tool isn't going to change his plans. </p><p><em> If anything, </em> Starling thinks, <em> it'll make him rush. </em></p><p> </p><p> Crawford doesn’t greet her when she rushes into his office. He throws down a small folder at his desk, watched on by Price and Zeller, and says, “Here’s the deal,” He doesn’t sound pleased. Price and Zeller don’t look pleased either.</p><p>“Sir?” she asks, reaching for the folder. </p><p>“The Senator already called us about her daughter, so we don’t have a choice anymore about dealing with Lecter and Will.” Starling watches as his already stony face hardens more. “So we worked out a deal with the senator; bring it to them, tell them it's not negotiable, listen to their info, and then come right back here. After that, you hopefully won’t have to interview them again.”</p><p>Starling scans through the deal. New York. “They’ll be much farther away,” she says it like it's a good thing. For some reason it doesn't feel like one. It feels like something unfinished.</p><p>“Harder to keep an eye on,” Zeller responds, like a rebuttal. She doesn’t like Zeller. He is friendly in a way Starling thinks abrasive, and hates being corrected in a way that was arrogant. The fact that she corrected him on something in their first meeting didn’t warm her up to him at all, and the feeling is mutual. He teaches at the Academy usually, though she knows he used to be part of the main forensic team, and for some reason he helped with the Graham-Lecter case a year ago. Clarice doesn’t know if he’s helping with Buffalo Bill or just with the transfer. </p><p>She wishes he wasn’t. </p><p> </p><p>Thankfully, when she gets to the BSHCI, there is no Chilton nor Lounds in her way.</p><p>“I bring good news,” Is how she greets them, walking to the room where their cells are. Will is reading a book of poetry at his desk, feet propped up, while Doctor Lecter was writing something at his. </p><p>“Oh?” Doctor Lecter inquires, pausing his writing. “I assume from Jack?”</p><p>“Yes,” She confirms, showcasing the thin folder. “Another woman was kidnapped, but Bill made a mistake: she’s Senator Martin’s daughter. That senator made Crawford ‘okay’ this deal, which states that if you give us a profile of Buffalo Bill that helps catch him before Ms. Martin’s death, you both will be transferred to a hospital in New York, where you will be held in cells next to each other, though still in Maximum Security, of course,” She pauses. “I googled the Hospital; your cells will have a window so you can look outside, and it's bigger than that,” She gestures with her head to the skylight that, while only on Doctor Lecter’s side of the cell, sheds moonlight into Will’s as well. “Would you like to look at it?” She asks them, gesturing to the folder. </p><p>“Hand it to Hannibal, if you could.” Will tells her, folding the corner of his page before placing it on the desk. She places the folder in the food slot.</p><p>“Thank you, Clarice.” Doctor Lecter places his soft pencil down to look over the deal. </p><p>“The deal is non negotiable, so what you see is what you get,” Starling tells them, an apologetic tone to her voice.</p><p>“Hm,” Doctor Lecter hums, looking over the deal. “No mention that we have to tell you the name of Buffalo Bill, is there?”</p><p>Starling cringes. <em> Shit</em>. “I may have neglected to tell Crawford that you both know the name of Bill.” She quickly adds, “Not because I’m hiding that information though. Only because I didn't have time to-”</p><p>“It's okay, Clarice,” Will tells her, waving his hand nonchalantly. “Must have just slipped from your memory.”</p><p>Doctor Lecter finishes reading then, and, apparently satisfied with the deal, says, “Do you know what cocoon was placed in Miss West Virginia's throat, Clarice?”</p><p>“Yes, <em> Acherontia styx,” </em>she nods her head. “The Death’s Head Hawkmoth, or, as Price was happy to point out, the Bee Robber.”</p><p>“How are Price and Zeller?” Will asks. </p><p>Starling doesn’t pause. “Tiring.” Will smiles in understanding at that.</p><p>“The significance of a moth is change,” Doctor Lecter says. “Caterpillar into chrysalis, into something remarkable.”</p><p>“So Bill wants to change?” Starling guesses. “He’s killing these girls to change himself?”</p><p>“Killing does change the way you think,” Will says, like it's something of an inside joke, catching Doctor Lecter’s eyes as he does. Doctor Lecter doesn’t smile, but his lips quirk up a bit. “But there's more than that.”</p><p>“If one wants to change, Clarice, how would they go about it?”</p><p>“Before murder?”</p><p>Doctor Lecter’s lips twitch a bit higher. “Yes, before murder.”</p><p>“They, uh,” Starling furrows her brows. “Appearance? You would start with your appearance.” </p><p>“Good.” Will nods his head. “How do you change your appearance?”</p><p>“Um, shave, color your hair, tattoos, surgery…”</p><p>“Surgery,” Doctor Lecter confirms. “Although all your bodies have been found in different rivers, it's always only two states that they’re taken- Ohio and West Virginia. It would be safe to assume Billy is operating from either of those states. There also is a high possibility that Bill wanted to get plastic surgery, but was rejected for instability.”</p><p> “We need to look at plastic surgery centers in those states,” Starlings nods, following along. “There has to be thousands, though.”</p><p>“Only the expensive ones,” Will corrects. “Billy is able to drive long distances, devote their time in keeping a captive for three days, and then the days inbetween a body being found and someone being abducted where Billy does whatever they need with the skin. They don’t have a job-”</p><p>“And yet they have their own place, their own car, and a nursery of moths. They probably dress well, so his victims are more likely not to suspect them. He has money.” Starling finishes, excited. “Rich, in their 30s or 40s, white, history of instability, and applications to expensive plastic surgeons in Ohio and West Virginia.” </p><p>“Well done, Clarice,” Doctor Lecter praises. “I see the FBI can manage without Will, as long as you're there.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Starling says, truly pleased at the compliment.</p><p>“No, Clarice,” Doctor Lecter raises the folder containing the deal in appreciation. “Thank you,”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>“Captivity has made you two positivley dim,” Frederick mocks them giddily a few hours later, a metaphorical spring in his step. “You truly thought Jack Crawford was going to risk your escape, transfer you all the way to New York?” Frederick scoffs. “You barely made it out of the city last time before you broke free.”</p><p>“I did have help in that, however.” Hannibal says calmly.</p><p>“Yes, you did,” Frederick apparently was feeling very brave today, as he manages to glare at Will, however briefly. </p><p>“I’m going to stop what I assume to be a long, and rehearsed speech,” Will says, rolling his eyes. “And say that Starling’s deal was a fake?”</p><p>Frederick, obviously momentarily disappointed that he would not be able to talk as much as he wanted, sneers, and says. “Yes. I called the Senator-  Agent Starling and Jack scammed you both like old folks getting told to invest their money over the phone.” </p><p>Hannibal and Will are both in their cells, Frederick sitting outside them, but both are tied up in straight jackets, mouth masks in place, as if Frederick was afraid that they’d somehow break free and bite him through the walls.</p><p>He usually only dressed them up like this if it was for therapy in one of the small cages. <em> He must be nervous as well as brave today</em>, Hannibal surmises. </p><p>“But,” Frederick continues. “I am smarter than Crawford,” <em> Inconceivable </em>. “And know when something can be done in my favor.” Frederick bends down to his briefcase, and pulls out a thin folder. “I made a real deal- though, of course, a few bonuses for me.” </p><p>“And what are those, Frederick?” Will asks. His voice sounds bored, and yet Hannibal can sense the irritation rising off of him. Moreso because of Frederick’s presence than because of the fake deal, Hannibal knows. The deal being a lie was, of course, something they both assumed would happen.</p><p>“If the girl is found in time, you both will be transferred to Tennessee, and you will never, ever again, imply, infer, or say that I have neglected or abused any of my duties as head of this hospital, either to you or anyone else.” Frederick states. “You will tell me the actual name of Buffalo Bill- yes, I heard that you know who he is, and I’m sure Crawford will be pleased to know his agent has been hiding that from him- and finally,” Frederick pauses here, and if it is simply for dramatic effect, or if he needs a moment to himself, Hannibal doesn’t care. “If you ever break free you won’t go after me.”</p><p>Will gives a short laugh. “You’re very confident in Hannibal and I’s chances.”</p><p>“You two have an almost preternatural ability to get away with what you want,” Frederick tells them, the first smart thing out of his mouth in a while. “I’m just making sure <em> my </em>chances are half as good.”</p><p>“It’s a deal, Frederick,” Hannibal says. “You understand, though, if Will and I add our own amendments to it.” Frederick opens his mouth to respond, but Hannibal continues on before he has the chance. “Agent Clarice will be there in Tennessee, when you hand us off, to monitor it.”</p><p>“That’s it?” Frederick asks, sceptical. As he should be.</p><p>“One more thing,” Will smirks. “Bill’s initials are ‘RD’- you’ll get the rest when we see the Senator, face to face.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>Starling is typing at her desk, completing her written profile of Buffalo Bill when Crawford calls for her to come to his office. She has already told Crawford about Will and Doctor Lecter’s profile at that point, so with a sense of trepidation, she enters, unsure on why she was summoned. </p><p>    “Yes, sir?”</p><p>“Senator Martin called me,” Crawford says, walking back to sit at his desk. </p><p>“Did...is there a problem with Will and Doctor Lecter’s deal?” Starling asks, hoping she’s doing the best to conceal her worry. </p><p>“There was no deal, Starling,” Crawford sighs. “I was never going to allow them to leave the BSHCI, but apparently Dr. Chilton had different ideas, and now it's out of my hands- He made his own deal with the senator, and you're a part of it.”</p><p>“Sir?”</p><p>“Will and Lecter are getting transferred to Tennessee, and want you to monitor them until the transfer is finished.”</p><p>“They want me to go with them? Why?” Starling asks, feeling flattered. </p><p>Crawford’s glare makes those feelings wither a little, however. “I don’t know, but they said they’d only tell the Senator Buffalo Bill’s name if you're there.”</p><p>Starling swallows. “They know the name?” She hopes she looks surprised. </p><p>“Yes, they do,” Crawford shakes his head. “Of course they do, they’re always involved somehow.”</p><p>“Sir, why didn't you tell me the deal was a fake? I told you early on I didn’t care if I had to lie, just that I wanted in on it.” She wasn't so sure about ‘not caring if she had to lie factor’ anymore though. It’s not that she felt bad, thinking that she had inadvertently lied to them again, it was more that she enjoyed what she thought were honest, if not confusing, conversations between the three of them.</p><p>“You want me to tell you the truth, Starling?” Crawford asks. </p><p>“Yes, sir,” She says, knowing she’s not going to like his answer.</p><p>“I don’t trust you with the two of them.”</p><p>Starling makes a small noise of outrage, surprised. “You don’t trust me with them? Why?”</p><p>“Last time I trusted someone with Hannibal Lecter, they ran away with him,” Crawford says harshly, avoiding her eyes. </p><p>Starling takes a step back, as if slapped. She looks at him angrily, feeling something burn in her chest. He still avoids her eyes. “That’s not all, is it? You believed the Lounds article, don’t you?” Her hands ball up, and she can feel her own nails peirce her skin. “You think that they’re grooming me to be some sort of- of-” Starling makes a sound in the back of her throat that even to her sounds animal. “Murder Daughter?” The term sounds ridiculous to her ears, clashing like a bad chord on a piano.</p><p>It's his silence that speaks for him.</p><p>“Sir,” she takes a breath, trying to stop herself from lashing out. “What have I done to make you think less of me in this case?” In one terrible moment, she remembers that Chilton records her conversations with Will and Doctor Lecter. Did he tell Crawford that she didn’t tell him about the two knowing Bill’s name?</p><p>“You’re getting too close to them,” Crawford tells her, looking up. Through her anger she feels a swell of relief.</p><p>“Isn’t that why you picked me?” Starling argues. “Because you thought I could get close to them? Make them think of Abigail Hobbs, someone who's been dead for 12 years, make them want to confide in me because of who I look like? Sir? And now that it worked, you blame me, and set back my rapport, make them think I was lying to them, and what, are you going to kick me off the case as well?”</p><p>“You're not kicked off the case,” Crawford says grudgingly. “Will and Lecter <em> demand </em> that you're the one to help bring them to Tennessee. If you don’t go, they won’t speak.“</p><p>“And after that?” She hisses. </p><p>“Once they give us the name of Buffalo Bill you're on the first plane back to Virginia.” </p><p>Starling wants to scream. She wants to punch something. She wants to take a page out of Buffalo Bill’s book and flay him. The thought is pleasing, but she quickly sweeps it away, like spring cleaning.</p><p>Starling nods her head tersely and says through gritted teeth, “Sir,” before walking out. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Pour one out for Jack Crawford, man is literally only trying to stop people from getting killed, and yet the three main characters hate him.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Cepelinai</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They don’t let Hannibal see Will on the plane, or even talk to him. They’re on different ends, caged, both their backs to each other and surrounded by heavy guards, and everytime one of them opens their mouths, at least one of the guards cocks their gun, trying to intimidate. Hannibal spends the almost three hour flight imagining various ways to kill the guards, as well as Jack, Frederick, and the Senator he’s about to meet.</p><p>He imagines that Will is thinking the same thing, and that entertains him just as much.</p><p>Half of his personal guards point their guns at him when the plane lands, the other half carefully tying him up taut and securing him to a vertical wheelchair. He hears Will get a similar treatment.</p><p>Hannibal and Will get shuffled off the plane like luggage, and it's only the sizable crowd at the airport that makes Hannibal not automatically prickle at that. Most of the crowd are agents, security, and police, that, while flatters Hannibal, is probably too much to be reasonable. Hannibal catches Frederick on the edge of the crowd, a ‘safe’ distance away from him and Will. <em>Out of the splash zone, </em>Hannibal imagines Will would say. It seems Frederick’s fear of them is finally making him reasonable. As Will is wheeled up next to him at the hangar, Hannibal shares a pleased look. Both their mouth masks are clear, and he watches as Will subtly rolls his eyes at him, the corner of his mouth quirked up in humor.</p><p>More FBI agents soon arrive, and with them, Jack and Clarice. Hannibal watches, curious, as Clarice strides in behind Jack, a bag over her shoulder, eyes stabbing into the man’s back.</p><p><em> Jack, Jack, Jack, </em> Hannibal silently chides. <em> What have you done now? </em></p><p>“Good to see you, Jack. It’s been a while.” Will greets with faux politeness, unable to stop smirking. </p><p>“Clarice, lovely as always.” Hannibal says, finishing the welcome. </p><p>Jack’s lip curls at both of them at Will’s address, but, and Hannibal watches this with his curiosity peaking, shoots a glare at Clarice when Hannibal greets her. She holds her ground. </p><p>“So, where's the Senator, Jack?” Will asks. “This isn't another trick, is it?” He raises a brow. “Certainly would be <em> authentic </em> to fly us here.” Hannibal doesn’t know the correlation between the word and Jack’s slight flinch, but he still finds enjoyment in it.</p><p>“She’ll be here any moment.” Jack tells them tersely. </p><p>Just then, two limos drive into the hangar. Hannibal pays no mind to them as people get out of the car, instead deciding a better use of his time would be to study Clarice; he can see Will doing the same thing. </p><p>She’s looking back at them, holding their gaze as her eyes goes between them, and unlike the other times she had visited them in the BSHCI, the flickering rage that Hannibal was hoping to kindle was not there- instead there was a bright blaze of sound fury. Whatever Jack did to make Clarice enraged, he wanted to thank the man. Her Becoming, her Transformation, whatever she one day would want to call it, was closer than he expected.</p><p>Perhaps he would send Jack a letter of gratitude, after this was all done.</p><p>“Senator Martin,” Jack’s voice breaks Hannibal from his thoughts, looking up to see the infamous Senator. She is around Will’s age, wearing a sharp and dark red suit that Hannibal couldn't help but think would look very fitting on Alana Bloom. The red of the suit would be able to hide the bloodstains until the very end, until the blood turned black and flaky. “Doctor Lecter and Will Graham.”</p><p>“I would shake your hand, Senator Martin, but as you can see I’m a little tied up at the moment.” Hannibal says, smiling when it causes Will to give a snort of laughter. The Senator looks at them tensely, strung up. </p><p>“Dr. Lecter, Mr. Graham, I've brought an affidavit guaranteeing your new rights... You'll both want to read it before I sign.” A woman behind her, an assistant Hannibal assumes, shuffles up with a briefcase, reaching for something inside.</p><p>Will shakes his head as much as he can. “No need for that, we’ll just take your word.”</p><p>Hannibal sees Clarice raise her brows in surprise. The Senator says, “You both have my word.”</p><p>The assistant puts the briefcase down and pulls out a notepad and pen from the inner pocket of her coat.</p><p>“His name?” Senator Martin demands.</p><p>Hannibal doesn't answer right away. “You’ll find this is no ordinary blue eyed boy.” Hannibal says instead, with barely contained glee. He catches Clarice narrowing her eyes at that. <em> Come on, Clarice, </em> he thinks encouragedly, <em> catch up. </em> </p><p>“His <em> name </em>,” Senator Martin demands again.</p><p>“<em>Her </em> name is Rhetta Dimes,” Will haughtily says, holding in laughter as the groups’ expressions light up in surprise. “Hannibal only had one appointment with her, after she was referred to by her friend Benjamin Raspail, sometime in late 2010.” And here, Hannibal smirks as Jack grinds his teeth, no doubt remembering the man Hannibal once left in a church pew with his tongue used as a bookmark in a Bible.</p><p>“Benjamin was concerned when Ms. Dimes started saying things about skin, and transformation.” Hannibal says. “Apparently she had killed a tourist one night. Benjamin was lacking in the details, but I am sure she gave it her best.” </p><p>“Do you have an address or description?” Jack hisses.</p><p>“When I last saw her, she was about 5’7”, lean built, and around 160 pounds,” Hannibal tells them all easily. “White, blonde hair, dark blue eyes. She would be 38 or 39 now, I believe.”</p><p>“She said she lived in Philadelphia, though if she was smart, she probably lied.” Will shrugs as well as he can with his constraints. “That’s all we can give you.”</p><p>“Oh, one more thing before you go,” Hannibal smiles when the Senator pauses. “Love the suit, senator.” </p><p>With a look of disgust sent their way, the senator leaves. </p><p> </p><p>After that, they're taken to a courthouse and left in two cages far apart from each other, watched on by a single guard, and nothing to do but wait. </p><p>    “‘Love the suit’?” Will asks, raising a brow. He is sitting on the desk in his cage, the only furniture besides a chair, which Hannibal was sitting on in his own cage. </p><p>“It was a nice suit,” Hannibal justifies. He’ll tell Will about the images it evoked later, perhaps. Will lets out a scoffing laugh, as if he already knows what the suit made Hannibal think of. Perhaps he did; Hannibal would not be surprised if that was the case. In the years since their first meeting- almost a decade and a half, Hannibal recalls fondly- Will has continued to surprise him with the knowledge he has of Hannibal’s own mind. He thinks back on what Frederick said: <em> Preternatural. </em>Perhaps if such a person was to cross the bounds of reality, it would be his Will. His own personal Pythia.</p><p>    “What are you thinking?” Will asks of him, tipping his head to the side slightly. “You have that look on your face.”</p><p>“What look is that?” Hannibal asks, amused and intrigued. </p><p>“The look you get when you are comparing me to some figure in ancient history and mythology.” Will answers, smiling with fond exasperation. “Who is it this time?”</p><p>Hannibal can only grin in gratefulness of being known so well.</p><p>***</p><p>Looking at the cells they have Will and Doctor Lecter in, Starling can’t help but think back at what Doctor Lecter said, days earlier: <em> We are caged. </em></p><p>It certainly looked like cages. The two of them were held in two different cells, about six feet apart, the cells small, only holding a desk and chair, and iron bars all around it. They both sat at their separate desk, eyes locked on each other. She briefly entertained the thought that they were reading each other’s minds.</p><p>“You can leave,” She tells their guard. He gives her a distrustworthy look, so Starling smiles at him and pulls out her FBI badge. “Just need to ask them a few more questions before their transfer continues tonight.” Their guard shrugs, and leaves. Starling waits until he shuts the door behind him before turning back towards Will and Doctor Lecter. “Hi,” she starts lamely.</p><p>“Hello, Clarice.” Will greets, looking away from Doctor Lecter the same time Doctor Lecter looks away from him. </p><p>“What do we owe this pleasure?” Doctor Lecter asks.</p><p>“I've got, um, some of your books. And drawings.” She takes them out of her bag and lifts them up with both hands to showcase them. She places each gift into their recipient's cell before stepping back. “To keep you busy until they move you.”</p><p>“Thank you, Clarice,” Doctor Lecter sounds earnest when he says it, though Starling isn't sure he is. Neither of them have gotten up to greet her.</p><p>“Thoughtful of you,” Will tells her, before raising an eyebrow. “Did you come here to give us our stuff or did you come here under Jack’s command to get more info from us?”</p><p>Starling scowls. “I’m off the case. Crawford thinks…”  She takes a breath. “Crawford thinks I’ve gotten too close to the both of you,” she confesses. </p><p>Will’s other brow shoots up.</p><p>“And what do you think, Clarice?” Doctor Lecter asks her.</p><p>The anger she felt for the past day hollows out, and she’s left feeling like she’s on the edge of a cliff, one foot over, a balancing act, as she answers, “I think I've gotten closer than I expected.” She then adds more honestly, “Closer than is probably good for me.” <em> Or others. </em></p><p>Will smiles, and gets up from his desk. “Did you know that the deal was fake the first time around?”</p><p>“No- but I’m sorry,” She cringes. “I wasn’t told the deal wasn't real until Crawford told me about this one. I think he thought I would have, I don’t know, warned you if I knew beforehand.”</p><p>“Would you have?” Doctor Lecter inquiries. He stands.</p><p>“I don’t know,” She doesn’t want to think of that. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?” She takes a step forward, until she’s at the taped line to stop, looking in the two cages. “You lied to them,” she angles her head towards the door. “Rhetta Dimes isn't Buffalo Bill’s name.”</p><p>“What makes you say that?” Will asks, though he’s full on grinning now.</p><p>“I thought you saying ‘no ordinary blue eyed boy.’ was odd, Doctor Lecter. But it did ring a bell.” Starling tells him. “Rhetta Dimes, an anagram of Mister Death. <em> ‘Jesus he was a handsome man and what i want to know is how do you like your blue-eyed boy Mister Death.’ </em> “ She recites proudly. “Poem by E.E Cummings, titled, <em> Buffalo Bill </em>.”</p><p>Doctor Lecter grins with Will now. “Clever girl,” he praises.</p><p>She lets herself revel in that only for a second. “Tell me her real name, please.”</p><p>Will shakes his head. “Whether you knew it or not, Clarice, you lied to us. We’re going to need an example of trust to get through this.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“You said you lived on a sheep farm, briefly,” Will reminds her. “Why briefly?”</p><p>Starling makes a wounded sound in the back of her throat, surprised that he would bring that up. “Catherine doesn’t have much time left.” she says, knowing that it doesn’t matter to anyone in this room.</p><p>“Then you better hurry,” Will says.</p><p>“Tick tock tick tock,” Doctor Lecter sounds.</p><p>“I didn’t have a reason, I just ran away.” Starling lies. “I was 10,”</p><p>“Not ‘just’ Clarice.” Will corrects her. “What set you off?”</p><p>“I heard a strange noise.” She admits. “Screaming.”</p><p>Doctor Lecter nods his head in understanding. “The lambs,”</p><p>“Like a child’s voice.” Will says, voice almost nostalgic.</p><p>“Yes,” Starling nods a bit erratically. She hasn't told anyone this. “And I went downstairs, and snuck to the barn. I had to see them.”</p><p>“Why?” Doctor Lecter asks.</p><p>“I didn’t know,” she says. “I just knew I had to see it happen.” The words feel like liquid spilling out of her, something she has no control over.</p><p>“Then what happened, Clarice?”</p><p>“I opened the gate, so that they could run, but they didn’t. They just looked confused as they heard another one of them scream to death. They were- it was like they were <em> content </em> to stand there and get slaughtered.”</p><p>“So you ran,” Doctor Lecter prompted. </p><p>“No,” She tells them, feeling animated now. “I grabbed a lamb, and started running, not knowing where, just- away. I thought if I could just take one, you know, show them that they didn’t have to die, but... He was so heavy and I was so small for my age.” She breathes in slowly, calming herself. “I was caught by the town sheriff, and sent away to an orphanage a few towns away.”</p><p>“What happened to the lamb you tried to save?” Will asks her, voice quiet.</p><p>“Killed him, I suppose.” Starling wants to shrug, casual, as if she doesn't think about it. She can’t. </p><p>“Do you think of your lamb, Clarice?” Doctor Lecter asks her. “Do you dream of the lambs, calm, until they face death screaming?”</p><p>She can’t speak. She nods. She thinks of her last dream, peacefully drowning in blood.</p><p>“What do you think about, when you have those dreams? You wanted to see the lambs get slaughtered, Clarice, before you wanted to save them. Do those dreams haunt you, because you know those screams are music to your ears?”</p><p>“No!” Starling denies, voice rough. It feels like a lie. She <em>knows</em> it's a lie. “No,”</p><p>“You think if Catherine lives, you won't wake up in the dark again, hearing the screams, thrilled?” Will phrases it as a question, but Starling knows it's not. “Do you think that saving a life changes who you are, deep down?”  She doesn’t know what to say, doesn't know how to deny in any way that would matter. “It didn’t for me,” Will tells her- <em> warns </em> her.</p><p>“I don’t know,” she confesses. She feels something tear within her.</p><p>“Thank you, Clarice,” Doctor Lecter says. “Truly.”</p><p>“Tell me her name, tell me anything to stop her.”</p><p>“We will help you, but we can’t give you all the answers.“ Doctor Lecter says.</p><p>“What does she serve, by killing? What does she need?” Will questions.</p><p>“She, um,” Starling racks her brain, trying to think. </p><p>“She covets, Clarice,” Will answers for her. “We covet all the time. We covet what we see, everyday.”</p><p>“Think,” Doctor Lecter says forcefully. “How and why does she choose the victims?”</p><p>“How did <em> you </em> choose your victims?” Starling retorts, trying to regain her footing again.</p><p>“Why do you want to know?” Doctor Lecter cocks his head to the side, curiously. “I don’t believe it would help you in this case.”</p><p>“It might,” Starling swallows. <em> Nothing to lose now. </em>“But..I’m…I want to know you both.” She says quietly, the last part quickly. She feels something else within her tear at the admittance; it doesn’t feel like she’s losing herself though. It feels like wrapping paper tearing to reveal a gift. </p><p>“We didn’t always kill together,” Will tells her. “Most times, sure, but not always.”</p><p>“So you have different motives?”</p><p>“Hannibal would tell you that anyone rude is fair game,” Will smiles fondly at his husband, head angled in a flirtatious manner. Doctor Lecter smiles back pleasantly.</p><p>“Meanwhile Will had a more strict code.” </p><p>“Lenient, “ Will corrects. </p><p>Starling doesn't see how one could see something as strict, and the other as lenient. She wonders if she'll ever be able to ask them. “Who was fair game for you, Will?”</p><p>Will shrugs. “One kicked their dog, another hit his wife. Some were assholes to us cause we're married, others were in the way. Some I was just curious about. You have to understand, Clarice; it's less that I have more value for human life than Hannibal, it's just that I get more out of it by taking out those who deserve it- there’s a heady power in that.”</p><p>“I understand,” Starling swallows. She thinks of those who got in his way, those he was curious about. The FBI agents at their arrest, stabbed and cut in between their vests. Doctor Du Maurier, without one leg and found rotting, face first, into a plate of oysters. The police when Hannibal first escaped. Chilton, all those years ago, burnt to a crisp. Probably more, in the years he worked for the FBI. She thinks about all the tableaus he and Hannibal made over the years, across continents; the sins their victims must have committed in Will and Hannibal's eyes to be deserving of such an end. She has to think back to the task at hand quickly, before her thoughts stray more into that line of thinking. “She chooses her victims by…” Starling squeezes her eyes shut, thinking. “They all looked different. But they all were women. Internalized sexism? No,” She dismisses it as quickly as says it. “Transformation. Skin, but all different types. Moths. Different hair color, different eyes.”</p><p>“Nothing to link them together?” Doctor Lecter asks rhetorically. </p><p>“No, no, there has to be,” Starling argues, but she thinks only to herself. “Moths, transformation, different skins, change…” Her eyes snap open with a sudden sick realization. “She’s…She’s making herself a cocoon, isn't she?”</p><p>“Finally,” Will says, pleased. “You got it.”</p><p>“But I need more,” Starling protests. “I know what she’s doing but I don’t-”</p><p>“Jack,” Will suddenly greets. “Nice of you to drop in. We were afraid you were going to leave without a goodbye.”</p><p>Starling whips around, eyes wide. Crawford indeed was coming towards them like a bull, Will and Doctor Lecter’s guard following after him, confused.</p><p>“Sir-” Starling tries, not knowing what she would say. Sorry I’m not on a plane heading towards Virginia like you told me to? Sorry I lied to a guard just to talk to Will and Hannibal, instead of telling you they were lying? Fuck off? She doesn't get a chance to say any of that, however, as Crawford yells out, “Starling, get out now. I’ll see to you in a moment.”</p><p>She has to stop her lip curling at his tone, swallowing down her anger once again, and heads towards the door. She turns when she walks out the door, pressing her back against it casually, and listens in.</p><p>“We were in the middle of a conversation, Jack.” She hears Doctor Lecter scold. </p><p>“I know,” Crawford doesn’t yell, but his anger is a palpable thing, even from where Starling is standing. ”That’s why I’m taking her out of it.”</p><p>“Are you afraid for Clarice Starling?” Will asks with amused curiosity. </p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Ah,” Will says in understanding. “Are you afraid <em> of </em>Clarice Starling?”</p><p>Starling feels her heart stop in her chest for a moment. </p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Crawford says gruffly. “I’m afraid for <em> me </em>, Will, that I’ll lose another one, like I lost you.” Will lets out a harsh laugh at that, the sound causing the hairs on the back of Starling’s neck to raise. This laugh was different, yet no less real, than the times she made Will laugh before. This was the laugh of a predator. A primal part of Starling was fearful of the sound, while another part of her feels what she imagines a wolf cub would feel, hearing its parent’s howl. She tries to sweep the thought away, but finds that she can’t.</p><p>“I was never yours to lose, Jack.” Will tells him, still laughing.</p><p>“But you were Hannibal’s to gain?” Crawford asks with derision. That stops Will’s laughter.</p><p>“You viewed Will as a fragile teacup, a broken pony in your stable, something to lose, and never to what he actually is.” Starling strains her ears to hear Doctor Lecter sigh, as if disappointed. </p><p>“And what is he, in your professional opinion, Doctor Lecter?” Crawford questions sarcastically. </p><p>“I once compared him to a mongoose,” Doctor Lecter says this with fond nostalgia. She hears Will snicker. ”But,” Doctor Lecter continues. “I now know he is more than that- Will Graham isn’t something for modern man to win or lose. He is above everyone, a god spun backwards in time and landed in the present, crafting his will against those he knows to be unworthy.”</p><p><em> Poetic </em>, Starling thinks. </p><p>“Hannibal…” Will sighs, sounding breathless and in love. Apparently he thought so too.</p><p>“What does that make you, then, Hannibal?” Crawford sounds more on edge than she had ever heard before.</p><p>“A fellow god turned into his most devoted follower,” Doctor Lecter answers, no pause or hesitation.</p><p>Crawford gives a humorless chuckle. “I hope you two enjoy your stay in Tennessee.” He mocks, and then his footsteps draw close to the door. Starling quickly draws back. </p><p>When Crawford walks through the door, his obvious rage lands on Starling. </p><p>“What,” He hisses. “Do you think you’re doing?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yeah I changed a lot about Buffalo Bill. Even though the text repeatedly says that Jame Gumb isn’t transgender, as a trans person it still makes me v uncomfortable the way Thomas Harris wrote it. So fuck that I’ll make it better. So Jame Gum is a gal in this, and whether she’s cis or trans is up to you I guess, but she’s not doing this cause She’s Transgender tm. I’m saying this now cause the story won’t go into that. Also I thought Hannibal could have done with more gal killers (We only got two I think?) so. This. Also a lady suit, while fucked up, does seem a bit, idk, tame for NBC’s Hannibal. I mean, we got people crafted into trees and stitched into horses and pig surrogates births and literal human fertilizer for mushrooms. Let Buffalo Bill have a cocoon.</p><p>Also my interpretation of Will is that he has High Empathy, Low Sympathy. He can understand people, sure, but he doesn’t care about them. He doesn’t care when innocent people get hurt as long as he gets what he wants (The officers who died in Hannibal’s escape, for example), and he didn’t care that how Hannibal chose his victims is simply rude, not destructive or a bad person, just rude (He wanted him to leave, after all. He knew what Hannibal would do on the run) When he talks about killing, he feels good, righteous, powerful. I imagine Hannibal would say he’s like God during the biblical flood. So that’s my interpretation of Will’s morals, and therefor my interpretation on who his victims would be in a Season 4 situation.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Arbata</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After Clarice and Jack’s visit, Hannibal goes through the books and drawings Clarice was kind enough to give back to them. Hannibal shifts through the drawings that she brought, noticing with a bit of fond humor that most of them are the drawings he’s done of Will. </p><p>Clarice has gifted him a respectable amount of his drawing backs, some of them rolled up and bound by a rubber band, while others are simply stacked on top of each other- except, no, Hannibal realizes in surprise. Most of them were indeed just loose papers, but then, underneath all that, is a pile of his smaller drawings, secured together by a brass paper fastener. Hannibal feels his brows raise at the unexpected present. An act of incompetence on Clarice’s part? Or was the drawing and books a smoke screen for this actual gift? </p><p>Hannibal turns slightly so that his back is facing the guard, slipping his hand under the paper to undo the fastener and place it in between his pointer and middle finger, hidden away. He subtly tilts his hand to the side slightly, making the fluorescent lights of the room bounce of the paper fastener briefly. Will catches it, eyes trailing downwards to the small object. Hannibal gives him a small smile. Will nods his head slightly, almost unnoticeable, and turns to look at their guard to ask, “When’s dinner time?”</p><p>***</p><p>“What do you think you’re doing?” Crawford asks Starling again. </p><p>“I..” Starling doesn't know how to respond. “I thought I could get more information than they gave.”</p><p>“You think they're hiding something?” Crawford asks, clearly disbelieving. He starts walking away, the look he gives Starling warning her she better follow. “They gave us a profile, a name, description, and a city, Starling, what more could they give us?” Starling feels a perverse thrill of glee over having knowledge that Crawford does not. A secret that only Will, Hannibal, and her know.</p><p>“They could have given us a reason that Rhetta Dimes is-” </p><p>Crawford cuffs her off as he opens the door to the outside of the courthouse, saying, “Starling, I’m going to be direct with you. You continuing your conversations with them has to stop. You’re off the case officially, starting now.” </p><p>“Because you don’t trust me.” Starling states dryly. She folds her arms in front of herself, hoping Crawford thinks it's from the chill of the night air and not a defensive gesture.</p><p>“I don’t trust anyone anymore,” Crawford argues. “The fact that you are in a delicate situation only makes you higher on that list.”</p><p>“‘Delicate situation’?” Starling says with ridicule.  “Because I look like someone y’all knew. Are you forgetting, Agent Crawford, that I went to the same academy you did, went through the same training? I am an FBI agent, not some young girl from Minnesota.” </p><p>“You’re also the person who Will and Hannibal demand be with them when they transfer.” Crawford reminds her. “Why is that?”</p><p><em> Because they find me interesting </em> , Starling thinks. <em> Because they like talking to me. </em> “Because they knew you would act like this,” Starling says instead. “They knew if they did this, you would stop trusting me, and then you would feel alone. Like they want you to feel.” She doesn’t know if that's true. It might be, it feels like something that Will and Doctor Lecter would do, something she would do herself if she was in their shoes. But she also feels that she was right that they demanded her to come because they were interested in what she would do, and were interested in having one last conversation with her. It could be all three, she supposes. Three motivations, stacked on top of each other to construct some meanings behind their actions. </p><p>She watches Crawford’s face slowly bleed out suspicion. “What do you talk about with them?” he asks, voice more soft than she ever heard him talk to her with. It bothers her just as much as when he yelled at her. “Chilton told me you talk about things not about the case.”</p><p>“I ask them about themselves,” Starling says, deciding honesty would be better in this situation. Or at least, partial honesty. “Why they picked their victims, why Will decided to run away with Doctor Lecter.”</p><p>“Why do you ask them that?” The suspicion bleeds out more.</p><p>“Any information we get out of them could help us catch the next serial killer.” Starling responds automatically. It's a lie, and as it passes her lips easily. Starling feels light. It's freeing. Crawford nods his head slowly. There's still suspicion there, but Starling knows that by telling him he was falling into Will and Doctor Lecter’s trap she had inclined herself to him more. He’s not used to people warning him anymore. Starling, for some reason, feels like she's winning.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>It’s dinner time.</p><p>Another guard comes in during this time, tray of food in each hand. He gives one of these trays to their guard, who stands up to grab it, one hand reaching for the handcuffs on his hip. The new guard does as well.</p><p>“Both of you, hands behind your back, walk towards the wall.” The new guard says, walking towards Will’s cage. Hannibal and Will follow his directions with no resistance.</p><p>They are both handcuffed to the bars of their cage, parallel to each other. Both Will and Hannibal turn their heads to the side to look at each other. Hannibal’s expression stays a polite detachment as his guard cuffs him. His face stays that way even after he takes the paper fastener out from the cuff of his sleeve as his guard steps inside his cell. Hannibal quietly and quickly picks the lock, making eye contact with Will as he does so, as both of their guards set their meals on the desks. Will’s face is emotionless, except for the fire in his eyes. Hannibal can feel anticipation, both of theirs, rolling up his spine. </p><p>He sees Will close his eyes for a second, preparing himself. When his eyes open, the only sign that Will dislocated his thumb to break out of his cuffs is a slight pained baring of his teeth, before he stands. Will wraps the chain of his handcuffs around the guard’s throat with one hand, getting the keys with the other, all while the guard kicks and tries to pull the chain to breathe. Once Will unlocks his handcuffs, he uses the now open cuff to slit the throat of his guard from behind, gripping the hair of the man to pull his head back.</p><p>The noise alerts Hannibal’s own guard, who, as he turns to look, is grabbed by the throat as well, Hannibal smashing his head against the bars to disorient him before using his own cuffs to slit one of the guard’s wrist. The cuffs are not an optimal tool to use for this, and Hannibal is pleased to hear the guard’s gurgling shouts of pain. He hits his head against the bars again to knock him out. </p><p>Hannibal lets out a calm breath, rolling his shoulders, stretching the muscles that have not been used in a year. He looks over at Will.</p><p>Will is grinning widely at him. His face is covered in blood from the arterial spray of the guard, as is his white jumpsuit. Hannibal feels his steady heart beat faster at the sight, at his blood stained angel, his wrathful god. Will saunters out of his cell, picking up the guard’s truncheon as he does, and leans against the bars next to the door of Hannibal’s. </p><p>“Going my way?” he teases, opening Hannibal’s cell wider with the truncheon. Hannibal doesn’t respond, instead springing to the other man, gripping his face roughly between his hands, and kisses him. It’s been a year since he’s touched Will- after seven years of being in his constant presence, the separation has pained Hannibal more than any blade could. Will tastes mainly of blood from his guard, and that just makes Hannibal kiss him harder. <em> Will </em> , Hannibal thinks repeatedly, religiously. <em> Will Will Will. </em></p><p>Will kisses back just as fiercely, using his free hand to grasp at the back of Hannibal’s neck, fingers intertwining with the fine hairs there, while the hand that holds the truncheon uses it to his advantage, pressing it into Hannibal’s back almost painfully, bringing Hannibal closer. </p><p>After a heated moment, Will pulls away, the blood smearing not only on his face, but now also Hannibal’s. His smile is soft, and the hand on Hannibal’s neck trails up to lightly caress his cheek. “Come on,” Will breathes. Hannibal closes his eyes at the feel of Will’s breath on his face, crafting a room in his mind palace just for this moment. “Let’s get out of here.”</p><p>“One thing before we go,” Hannibal says, dropping his hands and looking at the man Will killed. Will looks over as well, smile sharpening.</p><p> “What do you have in mind?”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>10 minutes after the guard does not return to his post after handing off dinner, someone goes to investigate. What the officer expected to find was two coworkers chatting while they watched their prisoners eat, and he would have to tell them to get back to work.</p><p>What he finds is not that, but one of the guards in a pool of their own blood in the prisoner’s cage, and the other one tied up three feet above ground, held against the bars of the other cell. The room’s huge curtains are used to both give the illusion of a chiton, and, as it wraps around the guard’s arms, wings. The winged guard’s neck was snapped and sawed through roughly enough that his head hung behind him, the back of the skull touching the shoulder blades. If the officer who found this had any interest in greek mythology, he might have recognized it as a posing reminiscent of Nike of Samothrace, and realize the meaning of such a tableau: victory. </p><p>“Shit,” The office croaks. He’s glad he didn't eat dinner.</p><p>“Augghhh…” He suddenly hears, and quickly turns towards the noise, to see that the guard who was in a pile of their own blood, who he assumed dead, was alive. </p><p>The officer goes for his radio.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>    Starling thinks she should pick up smoking. She hates the smell, and would definitely hate the taste, but at least it would give her something to do as she waits for her uber to pick her up from outside the courthouse and take her to the airport. She also hears it's great for anger.  After her conversation with Crawford, he said she’s still off the case, though he had promised her that she’ll get credit where credit is due. <em> It’s not good enough, </em> Starling thinks. <em> I’m the reason we’re here. Will and Hannibal would not have talked without me. It’s </em> my <em> case.  </em></p><p>She checks her phone. 15 minutes away.</p><p>She pays vague attention to all the voices around her, looking up at the night sky. It's a full moon, and the light of it makes her think of her dream a few nights ago. She shivers.</p><p>Soon the voices around her sound frantic, and Starling inclines her head a little to listen in better. Through the crowd she picks up various bits of conversations.</p><p>“...guard…”</p><p>“...dead, strung up….”</p><p>“...the ambulance is coming…”</p><p>“...they escaped.”</p><p>Starling feels like laughing. She doesn’t know why. Of course they did, <em> of course </em> they escaped. The tiger banged across the cage again, and again, and again, until it cracked.</p><p><em> Or </em> , her mind proposes, <em> the zookeeper left the cage unlocked, curious to see what would happen to the tourists. </em></p><p>She tries to sweep the thought away; she’s less successful than she would like.</p><p>***</p><p>Will jumps out of the window first, and Hannibal has to wonder at the thought process of those in charge to place him and Will on the first floor. Foolish. Will gives Hannibal his hand to help him out of the window, even though they both know he doesn't need it. Hannibal squeezes his hand in thanks anyway. </p><p>“Now what?” Will asks him quietly as they move along the side of the building, away from the window. “Hide out in the bushes until an ambulance comes for that guy, and jump it?” </p><p>Hannibal sways his head back and forth in thought. “Our outfits are quite noticeable at the moment, so I don’t believe we would get far enough to where the ambulances would park, without being spotted.”</p><p>Will scans what he can see of the parking lot from where they are. “I can probably hot wire a car.” he tells him.</p><p>“Have you ever done so before?” Hannibal asks him, curious. He doesn't believe Will ever shared that talent with him.</p><p>“No,” Will grins impishly. “Though I saw some teens do it as a kid. Pretty sure I can jog my memory of it, if need be.”</p><p>Though Hannibal is sure that is true, he doesn’t fancy gambling their freedom on it, and is trying to find a way to politely say that, when an ambulance pulls up into the parking lot, stopping right beside them. Will grips the truncheon he stole from the guard tighter, prepared to pounce if needed.</p><p>The back doors open and Hannibal grins at who he sees.</p><p>“Chiyoh,” he greets, pleasantly surprised. “I see your tabs on us have continued.”</p><p>Chiyoh, unchanged except for hair shorter than the last time they saw her five years ago, gives him a deadpanned look. “How could they not, Hannibal, with you being the top story for the past year?”</p><p>“The whole year?” Hannibal asks, entertained at that. Chiyoh doesn’t respond, and instead turns around to get something from the back of the ambulance. When she returns, she has two sets of clothes in each hand.</p><p>“You’re a miracle,” Will laughs, grabbing the offering of clothes and shucking off his jumpsuit shamelessly. Chiyoh doesn’t smile. She still doesn’t like Will, and Hannibal believes she never will. </p><p>“I am a curse set upon humanity,” she corrects him steadily, handing Hannibal his own set of clothes. “If I am helping you two.”</p><p>“‘Just because it's not nice doesn't mean it's not miraculous.’” Will tells her, wiping away the blood on his skin with his now old prison uniform, handing it to Hannibal to do the same once he’s done. Chiyoh doesn’t respond to that, but Hannibal sends him a very charmed smile. Hannibal wipes the blood from their kiss off his face, momentarily captivated by both the sights of Will undressed, and Will dressed up. He finds himself pleased that the vision that is Will Graham still thrills him. Very soon, both Hannibal and Will are dressed in street clothes.</p><p>“Stay in the back,” Chiyoh tells them, heading towards the driver’s seat. “An officer called in for an ambulance 2 minutes ago- they will be here soon and I will drive towards the front where they will stop.” She pauses to wait for Hannibal and Will to get in the back and close the doors. “That is where I will leave you; one of you will have to drive.”</p><p>“What about you?” Hannibal’s question to Chiyoh is asked not out of worry, but curiosity, which he knows Chiyoh is aware of. </p><p>Hannibal leans comfortably against the cushioned stretcher in the ambulance, Will next to him, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. Hannibal gives into his impulse to place his head against Will’s shoulder, feeling himself relax further as he breathes in Will’s scent. Will leans his head back a little, allowing Hannibal better access, knocking their foreheads together softly.</p><p>“I have my own car two miles west of here,” Chiyoh answers, starting the vehicle back up. “I will walk.”</p><p>***</p><p>Ambulances are starting to arrive. There’s three of them, and Starling wonders how many Will and Hannibal had to go through to escape, or if they’re still in there, tearing through people like the red sea.</p><p> “<em> Shit </em>,” Starling turns to see Crawford behind her, looking out at the ambulances.  “That woman,” Here he points to a woman who gets out of one of the ambulances. Starling doesn’t see anything about her that would cause Crawford distress, until he says, “She’s a friend of Hannibal’s.” As if his name summoned him, Starling watches as Doctor Lecter moves from the back of the ambulance and into the driver’s seat. Starling watches as Hannibal drives away from the scene. </p><p><em> It’s very clever, </em> she admits. No one would think they would be in an ambulance that came to the scene.</p><p>“They’re not getting away,” Crawford vows, rushing towards the nearest car. “Not again.”</p><p>Starling chases after him. “Sir!” She calls. Crawford barely pauses before continuing to get in the car. She gets the message: With or without her, he's going after them. She runs faster, barely managing to get in the passenger seat and shut the door before the car rushes forward. She spares a brief thought to wonder at whose car they are effectively stealing.</p><p>“What are you going to do when you catch up to them?” Starling asks. She knows the answer. </p><p>“They’re not going back in a cell.” Crawford predictably says. He doesn't look at her, eyes locked on the speeding ambulance. “Do you have a problem with that, Agent Starling?”</p><p>
  <em> Do you have a problem with me killing them? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Do you have a problem with someone dying? </em>
</p><p>Starling knows the answer to those as well. “No,” She tells Crawford, and lets him decide the meaning of that himself.</p><p>Doctor Lecter and Will must be aware that they’re being followed, because as soon as they leave the courthouse, they accelerate. Crawford follows suit, and then they are on a high speed chase at night. It’s very theatrical, Starling muses.</p><p>Starling knows certain truths about herself in the moment that Crawford manages to catch up with the ambulance, hitting the bumper and causing both cars to swerve a bit. She looks at Crawford, her superior, and thinks, like Chilton, like Lounds, that she hates him, and hates the girl he sees her as, as both weak and conniving. Prey and Predator. She knows which one she is. She looks in front of her to the car holding two serial killers, and wonders what they see. Hannibal once saw Will as a mongoose. What would he call her? The woman who went to the lambs to see them get slaughtered.</p><p>She doesn’t know what she’s going to do when Jack catches them.</p><p>But she does know what she won’t let happen.</p><p>Crawford speeds up so he’s next to the ambulance and, with a quick turn of the wheel, drives them both off the road.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It’s a day early for the update, but I’m excited to post the final chapter so ill prob post the final one on Wednesday so 👀 👀 👀</p><p> Also I’ve started writing a sequel to this- less in a season 6 kind of way, but more in a This is early Season 5A and the sequel would be Season 5b. Unsure when I’ll finish it, but I found myself completely endeared towards my version of Clarice Starling, so theres that.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Šakotis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I caved and posted today enjoy y’all</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will hears loud ringing, especially in his bad ear, and that’s all he can pay attention to for a moment. Once that settles down, he manages to open his eyes.</p><p>He’s in a ditch, the ambulance door he must have gotten thrown out of hanging off its hinges next to him. There’s a car on the side of the road, the front tires hangin off to the ditch. He hears vague shouting, but when he moves over to see why, pain shoots up his arm. “Guh,” he chokes out, squeezing his eyes tightly. Broken arm. Okay. Power through it. <em> You had worse, </em>Will reminds himself.</p><p>When he opens his eyes again, Will sees the blurring shapes of Hannibal on his back, next to him, with Jack on top of him. He can’t understand what Jack is screaming, but Will thinks it might be cursing.</p><p><em> Jack’s killing Hannibal, </em> Will thinks hazily. <em> Choking him. </em>It takes a minute for that to sink in.</p><p><em> Get up, </em> Will says to himself, suddenly urgent. <em> Get up get up get up! </em></p><p>He tries to turn over, tries to find the truncheon, to do anything, but his vision shifts violently, and all he can do is try not to vomit. <em> Power through it, </em> Will commands himself again. He reaches out to the slowly clearer shapes of Hannibal and Jack, just trying to distract Jack at least. Hannibal is barely moving, his fingers weakly twitching against the ones on his throat, unable to pry them off. Will’s fingers brush Jack’s sleeve. He tries to grip Jack’s arm, to pull him away, but-</p><p>
  <em> WACK! </em>
</p><p>Jack lets out a pained sound, dropping to the ground between Hannibal and Will. Will can hear the sweet sound of Hannibal’s broken inhale as air forcefully tries to get in his lungs. “Will?” Hannibal’s voice is hoarse, but there.</p><p>“Hannibal,” Will lets out a relieved sigh. He turns his head to see who took out Jack, and then blinks in surprise. “Clarice?” </p><p>Clarice is standing over them, shaking, eyes wide, the full moon casting a ghostly halo around her. In her hands is the truncheon that Will took. There is blood on it. Will looks back down at Jack, and presses his shaky fingers to the side of Jack’s neck. No pulse. He moves his hand to the back of the neck, where the wound is, dripping warm blood. It doesn’t feel that deep.<em> Internal decapitation, </em> he guesses.</p><p>“I-” Clarice blinks rapidly at them both. “He was-” She drops the truncheon, clumsily backing away. Will looks away from her to quickly glance over Hannibal. Hannibal rubs his throat, which Will can see as already bruising, but nods. He is okay. They stand up together, helping each for balance. The world swims in front of Will for a second before his equilibrium comes to.</p><p>“Did I kill him?” Clarice whispers, shuddering, eyes locked on her boss’s corpse. </p><p>“Yes,” Hannibal confirms, looking back at Jack, unconcerned. “It seems you did. Good job.” Will would roll his eyes, but he has a feeling in doing so he would lose his lunch. He still feels a little dizzy.</p><p>Clarice looks back and forth between the two of them, looking at them as if they had the answers to a puzzle she just could not figure out. Will wonders if that’s what he looked like when he killed Garret Jacob Hobbs.</p><p>“It’s okay, Clarice,” Will tries to comfort, walking towards her slowly. She stays where she is. “It’s okay, now.”</p><p>“Because I killed him.” </p><p>Will nods as he puts the hand of his good arm on her shoulder, carefully moving Clarice away from the scene, so that her back was towards both Jack’s body and Hannibal. Will thinks about all the options he and Hannibal have here. Will hums soothingly at her as he thinks, like he used to do to one of his new dogs, before they got used to being trained, one hand stroking her hair softly. The dark locks have Jack’s blood in it now, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her bottom lip quivers, and one of her hands shoots out to grip almost painfully at the wrist of the hand stroking her hair, making sure he doesn’t let go. Will thinks she’s using her grip on him to stable herself, using his steady pulse to anchor herself to him, to this moment. Even though his attention is on Clarice, he can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him. It always had interested Hannibal how Will was able to swing back and forth between genuine affection and genuine cruelty. </p><p>“He didn’t deserve to die?” Clarice phrases it as a question- Unknowingly, Will believes.</p><p>“Maybe,” He’s iffy on the aspect himself. In the long run, Jack probably deserved to live, but Will had wanted him dead, one way or another, since before Florence. He’s killed many people at this point in his life, and some of those had a sin list much shorter than Jack, and some much, <em> much </em> longer. Jack though- Jack simply had cost him too much personally. Will will shed no tears over Jack Crawford.</p><p>“I just wanted...”</p><p>“You wanted to kill him.” Will tells Clarice. She looks up at him, eyes wide. Is this how Hannibal felt when he came across Abigail standing over Nicholas Boyle’s body?</p><p>“No,” Clarice denies weakly. </p><p>“You wanted him to die,” It's not a correction on his previous statement, just another aspect of the truth, but he knows it would be easier for Clarice to swallow. She doesn’t deny this one. <em> Oh, Clarice </em> , Will thinks dotingly. <em> Our nescient wolf in Shepard clothing. </em> “How about another deal, Clarice?” Will suddenly decides. “You didn’t kill him. I did.” </p><p>“What?” Clarice cries, dropping her hand from his wrist. Will stops stroking her hair, but keeps his hand on her head. “I did! I- you couldn't have, I did, I just- Hannibal was dying and-”</p><p>“I killed him.” Will repeats with conviction, cutting her off. “You saw Jack attacking Hannibal, and rushed to incapacitate me so I couldn't stop him. You were too slow. I broke Jack’s neck.”</p><p>“His neck’s not-”  Will looks over Clarice’s shoulder, and makes eye contact with Hannibal. He nods, and swiftly bends down and breaks Jack’s neck. Clarice’s eyes widen further at the sound. “After I broke his neck,” Will goes on. “I hit him in the head, enraged. You managed to get the truncheon out of my hand, but then I knocked you out, okay?”</p><p>Clarice shakes her head, taking a step back. Will lets his hand drop. “No, I- don’t I have to-?”</p><p>“You don’t have to do anything, Clarice,” Hannibal says, limping towards them. “But let us lie for you,” </p><p><em> “Why?” </em> Clarice begs, desperate. “I’m not Abigail, I’m not her phantom, I’m not your daughter, I’m just- I’m no one to you!”</p><p>“You’re something.” Will argues, tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re a chance for all of us.”</p><p>“A chance to what?” She asks, voice small.</p><p>Will doesn’t hesitant. “To leave a legacy.”</p><p>Clarice shakes her head. “I don’t-“ She takes in an unsteady breath. “What if I don’t want to lie? What if I regret it- regret killing Crawford- and think I should go to jail?”</p><p>“Do you?” Will questions. He knows the answer.</p><p>“I should.” Clarice tries, not answering. “I know I should.”</p><p>“You should do whatever you want.” Will tells her. </p><p>“I don’t think I’m what you think I am.” She says that hesitant, as if she was unsure if she was lying or not.</p><p>“We don’t think you’re anything besides what you are, and what you could be, Clarice.” Hannibal says.</p><p>“And what is that?” Clarice asks. “What can I be?”</p><p>“I have thought of you, just now as you saved my life, as a Shepherd- Or, perhaps more accurately, a wolf wearing the clothes of the Shepherd.” Hannibal smiles at her, and Will smiles at him. </p><p>“Sworn to protect the sheep, yet not afraid to take a bite when no one is looking.” </p><p> “But here is the more important question: What do you want to be?” Hannibal places a hand on her shoulder in a very fatherly manner. Will is unsure how much of the gesture is manipulation and how much a desire to comfort for comfort sakes. He's surprised by the feeling that it's not mostly manipulation.</p><p>“I…” She licked her lips, brows furrowed in thought. “I don’t know what I am yet; I- I only know what I am not.” Will sees Hannibal looking pleased. He imagines his expression is the same. Clarice looks between the two of them. Will thinks back upon his image of her as a child; Wide, vulnerable eyes, but not weak. Never weak. “So, don’t...don’t kill me.” </p><p>Will gives her an honest smile. “You don’t have to worry about that.”</p><p>“I can’t promise it will be painless,” Hannibal informs her. “But it will be quick, and you will wake up.”</p><p>Hannibal moves swiftly, wrapping his arm around her neck, but not choking her, not yet. Clarice gently puts her hands on his arm for balance. </p><p>Will is momentarily taken back to Hannibal’s Baltimore kitchen, holding his guts in and watching Hannibal cut Abigail’s throat. The image is gone as quickly as it arrives.</p><p>“A parting gift for you, for when you wake up, Clarice,” Hannibal tells Clarice softly. “Remember this: didn’t those random scattering of sites seem desperately random?”</p><p>“Like the elaborations of a bad liar,” Will adds.</p><p> “What-” Clarice isn’t able to say more than that, as Hannibal tightens his hold. She lets it happen for a second, before her survival instincts kick in, causing her to try to claw at Hannibal. Will grabs her hands in his, ignoring the pain it causes in his arm.</p><p>“None of that, Clarice,” he says. “Just go to sleep.” She kicks, once, twice, three times, before fading out. Hannibal quickly loosens his grip, nose briefly going to her hair, a curious sniff. He gently places her on the ground, head on the soft grass. Will watches her chest rise and fall, and feels relief. He trusted Hannibal not to kill her, but but is still relieved. He supposes he should the surprised, though; Hannibal cares about her too, in his own way.</p><p>Will lets out a breath. “Did she smell afraid?”</p><p>“Yes, very much so.” Hannibal limps up to Will. “Though I believe not all of that fear is directed towards us, but her general situation. There was also the citrusy scent of something akin to triumph.”</p><p>“Triumph has a scent?” Will raises a brow, amused.</p><p>“Something akin to triumph has a scent, yes.”</p><p>Will nods, absorbing the information. How Hannibal is able to detect all that is still beyond him. “How’s your throat?” He asks, reaching out with his good arm to tenderly touch the bruises.</p><p>“I think I’ll live,” Hannibal says humorously, before asking more seriously, “Your arm?”</p><p>“Broken,” Will answers. ”Just the humerus, I think.” He shrugs, which hurts. “I might be concussed though.”</p><p>Hannibal makes one of his displeased sounds, cupping Will’s cheek, lightly stroking it. Will hums, content, closing his eyes. After a minute, Will twists his head to kiss Hannibal’s scarred wrist, before walking out of his grasp. “C’mon,” he says, picking up the truncheon. “Before anyone else gets here.”</p><p>***</p><p>When Clarice wakes up, it's a blur. She has to answer to the local police, as well as her supervisors in the FBI. She tells them the story that Will weaved, and they all buy it.</p><p><em> Of course </em> , she can tell they're thinking. <em> Kill the man who's been chasing you for years, incapacitate the green agent, and run. </em> She’s asked if she wants paid emotional leave, and she says no, and then, hesitantly, asks about the Buffalo Bill case. They only have a day left before Catherine will die. She’s told to get back on it, then. Jack Crawford, apparently, never told anyone else that he was kicking her off the case. </p><p>    She gets a motel room in Memphis, showers, and then facetimes Ardelia. </p><p>“Are you okay?” Ardelia quickly asks her once she answers. “I saw the news- Lecter and Graham escaped?” </p><p>“Yeah, killed their guards and left the courthouse in an ambulance.” Clarice pauses. “They also killed Agent Crawford.” There’s a strange sort of relief that washes over her as she says that. No one will know.</p><p>Ardelia’s eyes go wide. “Oh <em> shit </em>. Wait, are they gonna-“</p><p>“They’re not going to go after me.” Clarice says firmly. She can see the doubt in Ardelia’s face, so she adds. “They would find it rude.”  It’s technically not a lie, but Clarice also knows the real reason they won’t go after her, at least not to kill her.</p><p>Ardellia seemed to believe her, and after that, they go through what Will and Hannibal told her about Buffalo Bill. She doesn’t tell Ardelia that they whispered to her as they strangled her.</p><p>
  <em> Transformation. Moths. Desperately random. Coveting.  </em>
</p><p>    Together, they figure it out. Alone, Clarice boards a morning plane to Ohio, to the first victim’s house. Ardellia sends her a link when she’s on the plane, and Clarice looks only at the title of the article before closing out. </p><p>    <b>MURDER HUSBANDS ON THE LOOSE! </b> The TittleCrime article says, and below that, in smaller print, <b>Killed FBI Agent Jack Crawford in escape- images below!</b></p><p>She doesn’t have to look at the images. She was there, after all. She did it.<em> Your first one, </em> her brain whispers insidiously. She can’t sweep the thought away.</p><p> </p><p>Buffalo Bill is found, the FBI thinks, by sheer luck. A young agent who gets a hunch. Agent Clarice Starling, who went to the first victim's house. A hidden photo of her with another woman, someone the parents didn’t know about. On the back of the photo, the words <em> Jamie and me, </em>a heart drawn next to it. </p><p> A loose address book was found, J. Gump written in it, a heart drawn in it as well, accompanied by a small doodle of a bug; a butterfly, or, perhaps, a moth.  </p><p>Fredrica Bimmel, the now ex-girlfriend of Jamie Gump.</p><p>They met when Gump visited Bimmel’s workplace multiple times, friends will later say, they didn’t think it was serious; When they met, Gump was getting supplies for her moth nursery, they will add.</p><p> <em> Agent Starling </em> , the FBI thinks, <em> making jumps that weren't there. </em></p><p><em> The evidence </em> , she would say if asked, <em> was there. </em></p><p>No one notices how the timeline of when Clarice called her superiors for backup-2:12pm- is strangely close to Buffalo Bill’s time of death- around 2pm to 2:30pm; an alarmist, someone suspicious, would notice how the call could have been after the shots already came. That notion is never brought up, and never thought of at all.</p><p>Jamie Gump is found on her kitchen floor with one shot in the head, one shot in the shoulder, and three in the chest. Clarice Starling is found helping Catherine Martin out of a hole in the ground in the basement. The door to the moth nursery is broken, and they are surrounded.</p><p> </p><p>She goes to Crawford’s funeral a week later, and as she watches the casket lower into the ground, she feels a sick thrill of amazement. She’s going to get away with it. No one will know that she killed the head of the BAU. No one will know that she murdered her boss to save two serial killers- except for the serial killers themselves. </p><p>Price says something, as does Zeller, and a few others that Clarice doesn’t know of, but she doesn’t pay attention. She listens to her heart beat steadily in her chest. She doesn’t feel guilty, but she knows she should. She can’t regret saving Hannibal and Will, even at the cost of Crawford’s life, and at the cost of whoever they will find in the future to be their next victim. </p><p>She wonders what that makes her. If they were right about her. The words ‘Not afraid to take a bite’ play on repeat in her head.</p><p>Later at the wake, she stays close to the edge of the crowd, not in it, but not outside it either. She doesn't talk to anyone, though she notices Dr. Chilton in the crowd; he looks at her, but when she goes to meet his eyes, he quickly looks down, walking away. She absently wonders if he suspects her in anything- In the escape, in the murder. Clarice isn’t afraid, if he does. She doesn’t think he would say anything, even if he did- he’s too afraid of Will and Hannibal at this point, and, she assumes, by association, maybe her too.</p><p>She feels like she's floating, her back against the waves of the sea, in rhythm to her heart. It takes her longer than she would like to realize that her phone was ringing.</p><p>She thinks it must be Ardellia, away on a case somewhere in Maine, thinks that that's the only person who would call her during this, the only person who knows she is here, so she doesn’t bother looking at the caller ID as she pulls it out of her pocket. “Hello?”</p><p>“Congratulations, Clarice.” says Will’s voice on the other end. Her breath gets caught in her throat. </p><p>“Hello, Clarice. Have you come to find music in the screams of your lambs?” Hannibal’s voice says. </p><p>“Will, Hannibal.” She breathes out, quickly walking away from the crowd.</p><p>“We won’t be on long enough for a trace to get set up, so don’t worry about warning anyone.” Will tells her. “Just wanted to see how you were doing.”</p><p>“I’m- did you actually trust me?” Clarice questions, squeezing her eyes shut, her grip painful on the phone. “Or did you just know that I would try to get y’all transferred, knew that I wouldn't be able to? Knew that I would have to travel with you, that I would-” She can’t say it. <em> That I would slip you something that might help. </em> “Did you just know what I would do?”</p><p>“Isn’t that what trust is, Clarice?” Hannibal asks. She couldn't see his face, but she knew he was smiling. She hopes it is kind. “An inherent knowledge of the action of others, fully believing and allowing their actions to continue, either adjacent or against your own?”</p><p>“Tell us, Clairce,” Will adds, and she could hear the rhythm and timbre of Hannibal’s voice in his words, a ghost of many conversations past. “Do you trust us?”</p><p>“Trust you to what?”</p><p>“To keep your secret.”</p><p>“<em>Yes </em> ,” Clarice gasps, as if the words were stolen from her. <em> Of course she does. </em> “Where are you?”</p><p>“We’re not going to tell you.” Will consoles. “Hope you understand.”</p><p>“Time for us to go now,” Hannibal says. “We’re having an old friend for dinner, and it would be rude to make them wait any longer.”</p><p>Her eyes snap open. </p><p>“Hannibal is thinking about making Pork shogayaki,” Will tells her, gleeful.</p><p>“Hannibal, Will-”</p><p>“Farewell, Clarice,” Hannibal says. </p><p>“And good luck,” Will adds, and with that, the line goes dead. She listens to the silence on the other end, hands shaking faintly. <em> Goodbye, </em>She thinks painfully.</p><p>After a minute, she hangs slips her phone back in her pocket, and returns to the party.</p><p> </p><p>It’s on the news two days later- Freddie Lounds found dead in her hotel room in Virginia, killed by the men that unwillingly made her famous. The news on the tv doesn’t tell what happened to her, but the ones online do. There’s photos included. </p><p>Freddie was alive when her tongue was cut out, as well as her ears, and both her eyes. Her chest cavity, as well as her abdomen, was cut open, ribs broken. All but one of her organs were either cut and pushed down, or taken out to reveal her heart, a hotel pen in it. She was alive for most of that, only dying when they took her lungs. The ears, eyes, and tongue were found in the mini fridge with a note saying ‘<em> help yourselves </em>.’  She doesn’t know what they did with the organs they couldn’t shove down in her, but the flesh that they took, the meat from her abdomen, Clarice knows. She doesn’t tell anyone that it was probably used for a delicious pork shogayaki.</p><p>Grilled ginger pork.</p><p>Freddie was placed in a chair, fabric wrapped around her head like a shawl. She was holding a tablet to her tenderly, like it was a loved one. The tablet, once opened, revealed that it on the page of the TittleCrime article of the Murder Husbands escape. Before it was opened however, the lock screen was a lamb. </p><p>The tableau, all in all, bears an eerie similarity to a Pieta. </p><p>As Clarice looks at the photos, she becomes aware of both meanings in the work. The first one, the obvious one, the one that the authorities will find out and talk about is this: Freddie Lounds saw too much, talked too much, heard too much, and spent her life to the flimsy cause of journalism, and now, through her, it's dead. Or more accurately, now, through it, she’s dead.</p><p>The second one, however, is just for Clarice. The tableau is <em> good luck </em> , it is <em> thank you </em> , it is <em> you’re welcome </em>, but most of all it is this: a gift. </p><p><em> She irks me, </em> Clarice told them. <em> Did you see TattleCrime?  </em>She asked them.</p><p>Clarice can’t help but smile, looking at the photo of Freddie holding the virtual lamb.</p><p> </p><p>Clarice has a dream that night. She’s standing in a barn, the same one in her last dream. Clarice looks to her left. Will is there, smiling. He’s not wearing his prison jumpsuit, nor the outfit she last saw him in. Instead, he is wearing a dark blue button up and black slacks. His hair is swept neatly to the side. She looks to her right. Hannibal is there, eyes twinkling with humor. He’s wearing a matching dark brown sweater vest, blazer and pants, accompanied by a tie a dark reddish brown color. They would look like any normal rich couple, except for the blood that coats both their hands, shining in the moonlight.</p><p>“Now what?” She asks them, taking a step forward in the barn. They take a step with her.</p><p>“That’s entirely up to you.” Hannibal tells her. </p><p>“We’ll keep an eye out for you, though.” Will says. </p><p>Clarice turns around to face them. They’ve moved closer to each other, hips touching, and Hannibal has an arm around Will’s shoulders. In Will’s arms are a lamb, which struggles to escape his grasp, bleating out in terror. He doesn’t seem to notice. </p><p>“What will you do now?” Hannibal asks her, angling his head to gesture behind her. She can hear the curiosity that colors his voice. </p><p>She turns and sees Jamie Gump standing there, eyes glazed over in death, with still bleeding bullet wounds. Jamie looks at her, not saying anything, but aware, and Clarice feels a surge of power. <em> I did that, </em> she thinks gleefully.</p><p>She takes a step forward towards Jamie, walking so she’s behind her, looking over Jamie’s shoulder to see Will and Hannibal. They looks back at her. She thinks they look proud. She grabs Jamie where her head meets her neck, Jamie turning her head to look back at her from the corner of her eye.</p><p>“This is your transformation.” Jamie promises her. The blood from the bullet wound in her head dribbles into her mouth, staining her lips red like lipstick.</p><p>“I think you’re right.” Clarice agrees, before snapping Jamie’s neck like she imagines Hannibal did to Crawford.</p><p>Jamie’s body drops, and the moment it hits the ground it bursts into moths, hundreds, maybe thousands of them filling the air.</p><p><em> It’s beautiful, </em>Clarice thinks.</p><p>The lambs bleats out in fear louder.</p><p>Clarice looks back up at Hannibal and Will. Their smiles are an awful thing; both horrific and encouraging wonder. </p><p>    She smiles back, mirroring them.</p><p>She’s still smiling when she wakes up.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The end! I hope y’all liked the story. I am immensely happy with how this turned out, even if it was different than how I was originally going to write the first one.  Clarice was a very fun character to write, as I kind of got to play with her a bit- most of Clarice’s characters traits where taken and given to either Will or Miriam in the show, so there was a lot of blank space to work on with Clarice to make her seem like an original character, and not something seen before. I hope I did hat justice. </p><p>Clarice in the original draft of Let the Lambs Scream was more morally grey than this Clarice, which I’d say is pretty dark. She didn’t kill anyone, for starters. She also didn’t bond any where near as much to Will and Hannibal as this Clarice. But I thought as I was rewriting this that Clarice Starling in the books was at least little morally grey- she did run away with Hannibal to be his lover. Which. Yikes- so maybe this one was too, just a little more.</p><p> </p><p>Also I know I killed Jack off but Bryan Fuller if ur reading this and make a new season of Hannibal if Jack dies I’m rioting. He’s been through enough.</p><p>If I wasn’t clear on some of the characters motivations please don’t be afraid to ask For clarification- I was purposefully vague on the thought process because I wanted to keep the ambiguity that the show has with its character’s actions, but I am well aware that I may have come across too vague</p><p>EDIT 3/31/21: uuhhh so I AM writing a sequel, but first I touched up the fic. Also I super regret killing jack. I miss writing him :(</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi! So as you can see, I changed some stuff since I first wrote this- the main this is who Clarice looks like. Looking back, it felt like kinda of an icky thing for me, a white guy, to write a character asian purely because i wanted her to look like another asian character. Unsure if this was an actual icky thing or not for me to do, but i neither less decided against it. Because of that, the entire story kinda changed from how I was going to write it back then.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>